That was a wonderful dinner Marcus. No, I will not need anything more. Please enjoy yourselves gentlemen. There is no need to take any cues from me. Stop gawking Martin, that is Sir Roland. He does not bite. He will be joining us for a few more nights I believe? Excellent. Perhaps he can take over for me as your tutor at arms. I know of no better sword. Perhaps you wish to join him as well young master Nicholas? No. Very well. Now then, let me tell you how I became a student of Sir Kesselring. How the ambitions of the high plague the low. And a young princess who would set the world on fire.

My time not spent as an agent of the Isles was invested in an old passion. The libraries of the capital were a wonder. Before the civil strife and the subsequent purges, there was nearly a hundred of such institutions open to the public. Whilst the crown funded the operations of a few, it was the largess of the noble houses that sustained most of them. It was in inanimate written word that I pieced together the inkling of a soul. All the previous literature that I had access to was topical to my father’s trade and interests. Janie’s library had some works on poetry and fiction. Here in the city I had shelves full of art and philosophy.

I see you find my sentiments uninteresting. Very well, I will refrain from expressing them further. I took to taking Alwin to the lists. He was fascinated by the melee and the jousts. There were no great tourneys held during our stay, but there were always displays of sparring gentlemen. As untitled plebs we were not allowed to compete in the events. That infuriated Alwin to no end. I found the arrangement just fine. There was money to be made in the betting. Alwin had a good eye for winners. It took him a week to become vocal expert on the joust. Despite never swapping lances on horseback his entire life, he seemed to know something about the art.

Alwin’s loud commentary attracted attention. Most of it bad. A loud-mouthed foreigner with a critical tongue is seldom appreciated. The lists were the place where lordless squires and hedge knights competed in the hopes of catching a patron’s eye. Quite a few knightly orders took in mature recruits from the lists. If we greased the right palms and acquired the correct papers, there was a good chance that Alwin could have been allowed to participate. As the son of an earl he technically would have qualified for gentry. None of us thought of that back then. I was too busy making money and he was occupied haranguing the locals.

It all came to bite us in the behind one day. Alwin was being Alwin and on that day I was too irate to reign him in. I had spent the better part of that morning being bawled at by Llain. Neither of us had made any headway in securing a solution for our supply issues. Out antagonists were wising up to our decentralized purchasing. I could understand his frustration but that did little to cool my temper. Normally I would have reigned in Alwin from accidently crossing the line with his comments. Instead I let him run loose whilst I glowered from my seat.

‘Fool!’ Exclaimed Alwin. ‘Look. See how his point strays. He has no strength in his arms. The boy does not have the physical foundations to wield a lance.’

He was barely older than the boy. Alwin spoke in Auburn. His progress in the language was impressive. Unfortunately, he had no sense of discretion in its use. We attracted a fair few angry glances. Despite the impropriety, his comments were accurate. The rider he disparaged was an unimpressive specimen. He was young and had a good armor. Though we never saw the physique inside armor, I suspect it was soft from good living. Ours was lean and wiry. We could have used a few extra pounds. Hard living does that to a man. Still, I could see that he was a better rider than I was.

When he rode the yards towards his opponent, his tip bounced with the motions of his horse. You need a steady point to use a lance. A wavering tip could hit its target at an angle resulting in a glancing blow. Not that it wasn’t a devastating impact either way. Back then we only had maile and the occasional coat of plates. A heavy horse and a proper lance were lethal. Compared to modern jousts with plate harnesses, the sport of my youth was a lot more lethal.

The “fools” opponent was little better than he was. At least he kept a steady point. Unfortunately, it was angled poorly. With my jaded eyes I can see the accident before it could happen. Back then I had no idea what I was watching. Both riders met lance to shield. They were both scoring hits. The “fools” lance glanced safely to the side. His opponents slid above the shields rim. Inexorable momentum drove the tip into the “fools” coif. The blunt head struck his neck and snapped him off his mount. He was dead before he hit the ground.

‘Well… shit,’ I muttered.

The death had been abrupt and unexpected. It was like being doused in cold water. My previous bad humor was flushed away by the sudden violence. The boy lay sprawled on the ground unmoving. His head was twisted at an odd angle. Like I said, speed and violence make shock. Only the clip of hoofbeats sounded in the lists. A moment of silence then panic should have taken hold. But I was with Alwin. And Alwin was made a little different from everybody else.

‘Ha! Brilliant! A mistake yes, but-’

I quickly kicked Alwin’s shin to shut him up. Unfortunately, like I said, he was a little different. I had to shake him bodily to get him to stop. Now Alwin was not a bad person. I have met plenty of monsters. Men without conscious. Men who reveled in the perversity of evil. I guess it takes one to know one. Alwin was someone who had an obsessive nature. Once his mind was on something it was near impossible to shake it. He had trouble multitasking and reading the mood of other people. After his initial outburst was settled, he would be overcome with concern. He was a funny man in battle. When the killing started, he was as ruthless as iron. But he held to an uncompromising code of honor. He would have made an unsuccessful but model knight.

Despite my efforts the damage had been done. Once angry looks turned into murderous glares. Fear often turns to violence. I looked for a way out before things could get worse. Dragging Alwin by the arm I rose to make our way to the exits. We had no such luck. Someone looking for trouble.

‘Where are you going northerner?’

‘Had your fill of blood?’

‘Barbarians!’

I fixedly ignored the catcalls and frog marched Alwin. We were getting close to the exits when the challenge was issued.

‘Cowards!’

I wince at the word. Despite my previous foul temper, I was in no mood for violence. Whereas I might have normally walked away from the accusation, this was not the time nor place. Not with so many witnesses so near the field of honor. Besides, Alwin would never have let that one go.

‘Who said that!’ Snapped Alwin. ‘I demand to know who questioned our honor!’

There he went roping me in with our honor. I considered how this would play out. If it turned into a brawl in the stands, I would run. We both wore our broad knives. Neither of us had the privilege of wearing swords in the city. Not that we would if we could. A dangling length of steel on your hip was an inconvenience. That was why we had pages and shield bearers. We were outnumbered and pulling a knife was tantamount to digging our own graves.

Alwin froze in my grip and I turned with him. Three youths glared up at us from the aisles. By the cut of their clothes they were of reasonable wealth. No blue-blooded aristocrat would ever visit an open list. These were minor gentry. Two boys on the cusp of manhood and a young lady. We must have been of a similar age, but they looked juvenile to my eyes. It must have shown on my face because they immediately took ill to me.

‘What are you looking at serf? Mind your eyes before your betters!’ One of the shouted. I dubbed him piglet for his flushed chubby cheeks.

‘Apologies my lady,’ I addressed the girl, ‘I never meant to express any impropriety. It was just that your piglet has a most remarkable ability to squeal like a man.’

Alwin gave me a look that was almost as offended as piglets was. He disliked the name-calling and trash talking that often preceded a fight. Combat was something that should have been honorable. I did not particularly care for it either. It just seemed like a waste of breath to me. But I was young, and I think a part of me wanted this fight. They looked so green and confident that I wanted to crush their dander.

I drew my knife. It should have caused a flicker of uncertainty. Only the ignorant and the mad are unfazed by drawn steel. Tutting I theatrically dropped the weapon onto a bench. Doffing my jacket, I made the message was clear. Come and have a go. If you think your hard enough. Alwin caught on to my intentions and was all too happy to copy. Of course, he had his way of doing things and I had mine. My eyes met piglets and we had an understanding. That was good enough. Alwin begin formally issuing a challenge when I leaped down the aisles. It was foolish. It was dangerous. It was unexpected.

I crashed feet first into an unprepared opponent. We went tumbling down the platform. My head struck a ledge and I saw stars. Pain and dizziness had me giggling as I fell to the ground. I must have had the better of the fall because I rose first. There was a stinging numbness to my forehead. I reached a hand and felt a dampness there. My forehead must have split on the impact. Piglet laid wheezing on the ground. He looked fine if not a little disheveled. Then again, the full impact of airborne hobnails was not an inconsiderable force.

He was in the process of getting up when I stumbled up to him. Off in the corner I could see Alwin rolling his sleeves as his opponent waited. They were going to go at it like gentlemen. The absurdity of it bought on a fresh bout of giggling. I was no gentleman. Swinging a vicious boot to my rising man’s side, I floored him once more. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, and he flopped on his belly. Here is a lesson, never give an injured enemy time to recover. I stepped back to catch a breath. To steady my wheeling head. Rallying, I moved in to see if I needed to finish the job. Piglet had gone still after I booted him.

Closing in without caution I was treated to a surprise. Piglet exploded into motion. Rising to his knees he drove an uppercut into my groin. By the gods it was grim. All the strength in my body drained from my limbs. Piglet rose in triumph. It was a vicious reversal. Looking to press the advantage he rose to continue the fight. The thing about being belted in the crotch is that it goes beyond a simple physical pain. A growing nausea filled my gut and I felt my bile rising. A triumphant piglet slowly approached me with a ready fist. He never got to throw it.

I spewed the contents of my stomach in a violent spray. The geyser of food and bile hit piglet square in the face. I am proud to say I got none of it on me. It was a rather spectacular way to end a fight. It killed all his drive and momentum. Marshalling all the meager strength I had, I ended it with my boot crashing into his crotch.

Swiftly stepping aside to avoid a potential geyser counterattack, I watched my opponent fall on his face. My limbs felt weak and my insides queasy. Bitter bile filled my mouth. I felt like I could use a drink. A mug of small beer would go a long way in making things taste like victory. I turned to see how Alwin was doing. It was an unnecessary concern.

I said it before and I will say it again, only the Isles really knows how to box. You have wrestler and pugilist on the continent. Heavy prizefighters who slug out their competition. Trading blow for blow it is little better than a competition of fools. Alwin worked his opponent like a demented woodpecker. If my methods were ungentlemanly, his looked downright cruel. Ducking and weaving, the ease in which he pummeled his man was contemptuous.

As I watched Alwin break his opponent, I wondered what we had just done and what we would do. We won. But what that exactly meant was not entirely clear. Honor had been upheld but at what cost. Nobody was making any moves, but their attentions were less than appreciative. This was a piece of street theater. Something would eventually have to be done. There was a dead man on the ground and a brawl in the audience. We won no friends as the offending foreigners. Getting lynched or nailed by the watch was a very real possibility. I had as much time to find a way out as it took for Alwin to finish his sport.

Looking at the crowd it did not look like it would turn into a lynch. But that did not mean there would not be trouble with the watch. I was beginning to think that my proclivity towards violence was getting me in more trouble than it was worth. Scanning my surroundings, I caught the eye of an unexpected individual. He was an unmistakable highborn by his stature. However, the thinning pate and unshaven stubble contrasted with his breeding. The man was shockingly mundane beyond his size. He was smirking through the whole thing as if he found it funny. We shared a slight nod though I did not know what we agreed on.

Alwin’s fight ended with a hook to the gut. It was a blow delivered with his torso and leg. A solid punch to the kidney is often more effective than one to the head. Of course, a good boxer could send a man’s brains spinning. Alwin was good, but not that good. Despite that, he had come through his fight untouched. In an unarmed competition with plenty of room, a boxer holds a clear advantage over the wrestler. He had put on a good show. Though the winners were not popular they were entertaining. The crowd could have gone either way. We were saved by my new friends clapping. His booming applause swung the teetering opinions towards impressed. That was how I met Sir Kesselring, Knight Captain of the Kaisers Leibstandarte Rearguard.

The handling of the death was quick. We had nothing to do with it and there were plenty of witnesses to attest to that. Just another death that would have to be worked out between the relevant parties. The following brawl was another matter. Piglet and his friend were hurt but relatively unharmed. If anything, I was the only one who had bloodied himself. The young lady who came with her now beaten friends raised no fuss over the affair. Maybe it had something to do with a highborn standing behind us. She looked at me as if I was a feral madman. There was some truth in that. Alwin however received quite the different attention. She was making eyes at him. Some women are like that. Those women are trouble. For better or for worse Alwin had no sense for people. Attempting flirtatious looks or anything remotely subtle was a lost cause.

Kesselring had not come alone. He had an orderly and his protégé Keller with him. Yes, the very same Sir Albert Keller. He would go on to earn his spurs in the east. Back then he was the aide de camp to Kesselring. They soon took custody of us when the dust had settled. We were taken a quaint tavern run by a couple from the Reich. By this point our allegiances were transparent. We were quite open about our identities. Perhaps it is surprising but what did it matter to any of us? We were a pair of amusing runts who happened to catch their attention. The Reich saw the Isles as an annoyance not a threat. With the information they had it was a rational conclusion. None of us knew house Averntides true capabilities.

Washing the taste of bile out with a mug of small beer, we were unlikely gests of the Leibstandarte. And yes, it did taste like victory. Keller positively paraded us to his comrades at the tavern. They held no animosity towards us. Instead they seemed to find us mildly interesting at best. We were petty merchants and piratical barbarians to them. People from a nation of little interest who were surprisingly more civilized than they first thought. At least if we were anything to go by. Alwin was already caught up in an enthusiastic discussion with some of the younger men. He was demonstrating how he used his fists.

I watched from the sidelines for a bit. Enjoying my paid for beer, I was surprised to see that my two highborn hosts were taking food along with their drinks. The hour was a shortly before lunch. There were not all that many people in the building. It was a little too early for an early lunch. I was yet unfamiliar with the appetites of the highborn. Such size and vigor did not come without a tradeoff. Lady Maron must have dined sparingly in my presence.

My eye caught on to a pair of men sat over a chess board. Janie had taught me how to play but I was little good at it. Knowing how to play was an apparent prerequisite for a gentleman of quality. Being good at it was not. Like many things the aristocracy supposedly do, it was an affectation. Kesselring noted my attention.

‘Do you know how to play squire?’ He asked. The man was a gentleman. He called me squire as a courtesy rather than a title.

‘A little sir. I admit I am a novice at the game,’ I replied.

He grunted in response and made his manservant scare up a board. I was quite impressed at his orderly’s ability to find one in short time. He set up the board before the two of us. White on my side black on his.

‘I dislike chess,’ he began. ‘The game is interesting as a pastime, but it’s supposed correlation to tactical acumen is erroneous.’

‘How so,’ I asked.

“Let me refine that sentiment. Chess has no bearing on the abilities of a battlefield commander. Consider this young mister Saker, most battles are lost and won before the two sides even array themselves for battle. Condition, equipment, training, numbers… a thousand little factors influence the outcome. It is a fancy to think that equal forces of the same quality face each other on mirrored ground.’

I nodded at that. The best fights were not equal. ‘Yes, well I suppose I can see how a board game would of be representative of the real thing.’ I needed to learn how to not sound like a precocious ass.

‘Chess teaches only three lessons. The first is perspective. I have seen many leaders who are only occupied by the fight before them. They cannot see the battle beyond the reach of their blade. An army is a force that wins when all echelons are in motion. Second is projection. The orders of a commander have reactions. It teaches one to think multiple steps ahead. To plan and execute. To see threats before they are in motion. It teaches someone to act nor react if they wish to win. Finally, chess is an excellent introduction to the sheer frustration that is command. Your pieces are dumb, and all initiative falls to your hand. The game is maddening in its limitations.’

Just because he did not like chess did not mean he was bad at it. The highborn won with little effort on his part. He seemed to put in more effort nibbling his pale sausages out of their casings than winning. Kesselring was a believer in the man of action. Meticulous planning came second to swift and vigorous leadership. On the ground it is often the active commander that wins more than the perfect one. Battle is a violent thing. Violent leaders win violent competitions.