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  “Hardly a way to run a company.”

  The captain fidgeted. “And what would you know of such things?”

  “I’ve read many historical accounts,” said Ludwig. “It’s somewhat of a passion of mine. I’ve always wanted to be a soldier.”

  “I see. What would these stories of yours tell you?”

  “You need a rank structure. At the very least, you should appoint a few sergeants to keep everyone in line. Of course, that means you’d have to pay them a little more, perhaps an extra share each?”

  “That would cut down on profits,” warned Ecke.

  “Yes, but it would make you more flexible when it comes to deployment. You can issue orders to the sergeants and know they’d be carried out properly.”

  “Were you a professional soldier before you were knighted?”

  “No,” replied Ludwig, “merely passionate when it comes to warfare. Luckily, my mother encouraged the interest.”

  Ecke leaned back slightly, crossing his arms and looking at Cyn. “It appears we have a scholar amongst us.”

  “I would hardly call myself a scholar," countered Ludwig. "I’ve read a few books, that’s all.”

  “I dare say that’s more than most of our lads. You’d be hard-pressed to find one here who is even literate.”

  “How many can read?” asked Ludwig.

  “Why should that matter? I need them to fight, not read bedtime stories.”

  “Because sergeants should be able to read written messages. Find out who can read, and you’ve found your sergeants.”

  “I might remind you this is MY company,” said Ecke.

  “It's merely a suggestion, sir. You may take it or leave it at your discretion.”

  “You’ve given me much to think on,” the captain continued. “In the meantime, you must decide whether or not you will take us up on our offer.”

  “I shall,” said Ludwig.

  Ecke grinned. He stood, offering his hand. “Excellent! Welcome to the Grim Defenders.”

  * * *

  Ludwig peered down at the tent: a modest affair, consisting of two short poles with a rope connecting them at the top. Other lines held the structure in place, and a strip of canvas was placed over the taut rope, creating just enough room to lie down.

  “Well? What do you think?” asked Cyn.

  “It’s pretty small, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the standard size for such things.”

  His indignation was highly evident. “There isn’t even enough room to get dressed.”

  She laughed. “It’s only for sleeping. You get out of the tent to get dressed. Haven’t you ever seen one before?”

  “I’m a knight, remember? The only tents I’m familiar with are pavilions.” He knelt, peering inside. “Where’s my pallet?”

  “There is none. You sleep on the ground, or on some skins if you can manage it. Mind you, if we’re on a battlefield, we normally find an old house or something for shelter.”

  Ludwig shook his head. “I suppose it will have to do.”

  Cyn’s annoyance was unmistakable. “Have to do? You’re lucky to even have something like this. Other companies would make you sleep in the open air.”

  “They would?” said Ludwig. “Why's that?”

  “Do you have any idea how much was spent to provide this shelter? Most mercenaries would prefer to pocket the coins.”

  “Was it like that in the Crossed Swords?”

  “It was,” said Cyn, “though admittedly, my father had a pavilion.”

  “I thought you said your father found you and Sigwulf in a tent?”

  She laughed. “I did, didn’t I? The truth is mercenaries are free to spend their earnings however they see fit. Most choose to waste it all on ale, but some of us use it to buy things like tents. They’re much more convenient than trying to build a shelter in the middle of Saints-know-where.”

  “What about my armour?”

  “What about it?”

  “Where do I keep it?”

  “That’s easy,” said Cyn. “You wear it.”

  “No, I mean when I’m not fighting.”

  “So do I. We’re a company that moves around a lot, so we don’t have room for armour stands. I suppose you could throw it in a sack if you wanted to, but I’d hate to see it stolen.”

  “Stolen?" Ludwig said. "Are you saying you have thieves in the company?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, but the same can’t be said of the locals.”

  “Surely your guards keep them at bay?”

  “Guards can’t watch everything, and when night comes, it’s easy enough for people to sneak into camp.”

  “You speak like someone with experience.”

  Cyn chuckled. “I’ll admit I’ve come in late once or twice.”

  “Are there rules concerning such things?”

  “No, as long as we’re all ready to march when the time comes.”

  “Or fight?” said Ludwig.

  “Yes, that too.”

  He gazed once more into the small tent. “Well, I might as well give it a try.”

  “Here,” said Cyn. “Let me help.”

  “I can manage to get into a tent by myself.”

  “Fair enough, but if I were you, I’d take off my sword belt first. Your scabbard will get in the way.”

  He stood, removing his weapon. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Always remove your helmet before entering. You’d be surprised the damage that thing can do to the tent poles.”

  “I’m not wearing a helmet.”

  “True, but that won’t always be the case.”

  Ludwig tossed his sword inside, then crawled in and lay on his back. “The ground here is cold,” he remarked.

  “I would suggest lying on something. Have you a cloak?”

  “I do.”

  “Then lie that down when you’re ready to sleep.”

  “It’s not long enough to do that.”

  “Then you’ll have to let your feet hang over the edge.”

  He looked up at her. “Won’t they get cold?”

  “Not if you keep your boots on.”

  “What if my boots are wet?”

  “Honestly,” said Cyn, “must you complain about everything? Did your mother teach you nothing?”

  Ludwig fumed. “What’s that supposed to mean? My mother taught me plenty.”

  “Sometimes,” said Cyn, softening her voice, “you must simply make do with what you have. Look on the bright side, Ludwig. You have shelter, you have comrades, and you have two full meals a day. What else could you need?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” said Ludwig. “Perhaps something to read?”

  “Don’t look at me. Books are expensive.”

  “Does no one here have any?”

  “I believe the captain might. Why don’t you go and ask him? I’m sure he’d be willing to share.”

  “Maybe later,” said Ludwig. “I need to get settled in first.”

  She crouched, looking around the inside of his cramped compartment. “Settled? What is there to settle into? It's a bed, not a house.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do with myself?”

  “That’s simple," said Cyn. “You come and hang out with the rest of us.”

  “The whole company?”

  “If you want to. Most of us have our own little groups, but you’re more than welcome to make friends with others. Shall I make some introductions?”

  “That would be nice," said Ludwig. "Thank you.”

  “In that case, come out of that tent.” She waited as he extricated himself from the tiny space. He stood, stretching his back like an old man.

  “All done?” she asked.

  “Ready when you are.”

  “Good, then follow me.”

  She led him through the camp. “Dorkin over there, you already know. He’s the man to go see when food gets scarce.”

  “Does he have a secret stash?”

  “No, but he knows what k
inds of plants you can eat without getting sick. A useful skill when the company’s coffers are low.”

  “Does that happen regularly?”

  “Thankfully, no," said Cyn, "but then again, I’ve only been here for a few months.”

  “How many months?”

  She thought for a moment. “I’d guess about eight, but I’m not one for keeping track of dates.” They passed a trio of men standing by the fence that marked off the practice field.

  “Who are they?” Ludwig asked.

  “The tall one is Odo. You want to avoid him if you can.”

  “Why's that?”

  “He’s a notorious gambler," said Cyn. "He’ll cheat you out of what coins you have at the drop of a hat, any hat.”

  “What about the other two?”

  “Quentin and Emile. They’re actually twins, though obviously not identical. Usually, they hang around with Baldric. I’ll point him out later.”

  “Strange names,” said Ludwig. “I take it they’re not from around here.”

  “Very observant of you. They hail from the west.”

  “How far west?”

  “Within the area that’s now occupied by the Halvarian Empire. Their parents fled the region years ago, but the naming tradition continues.”

  “Anyone else I should watch out for?”

  Cyn halted, taking in her surroundings. “Yes, let me see…” She pointed. “See that man over there?”

  Ludwig rotated his gaze to take in a dark-haired mercenary with a vicious scar on his chin. “Yes, what of him?”

  “That’s Baldric. I’d watch myself around him if I were you. He angers easily.”

  “What of it?”

  “We don’t know much about him before he joined, but there are some who reckon he’s wanted for murder.”

  “A murderer?" Ludwig said. "Here in the company?”

  “Don’t look so surprised. The captain doesn’t care much about people's backgrounds, as long as they know how to fight.”

  “And can Baldric fight?”

  “Oh, yes," said Cyn. "He’s one of the toughest warriors I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something. Trust me, you don’t want him on your bad side.”

  “I'll remember to keep my distance,” said Ludwig.

  “Good,” said Cyn. “Now, let’s get on with the tour, shall we?”

  8

  Secrets

  Spring 1095 SR

  * * *

  The early morning sun poked in through the end of Ludwig's tent, waking him. He opened his eyes only to stare up at the canvas above him, damp with dew, and his aching back was a testament to the nearby tree whose root had somehow found itself beneath him.

  Sitting up, he grabbed a spare shirt and then crawled over to the opening. Once outside, he shivered in the early morning chill, donning his clothing as quickly as possible. Around him drifted the smells of campfires, and for the briefest of moments, it reminded him of the kitchens back home. That reminiscence was soon put to rest by the sound of someone urinating.

  He turned, determined to investigate the source, only to see Baldric loosing his piss against the side of some poor fellow's tent. Ludwig shook his head, remembering Cyn’s warning. Determined to avoid any such unpleasantries, he set out in search of his friends.

  He soon found Sigwulf. The bear of a man stood at a campfire, stirring a pot that dangled over the coals.

  At his approach, Sigwulf turned. “How was your first night in a tent?”

  “Fine,” replied Ludwig, “as long as you don’t mind sleeping on the root of a tree. I swear it wasn’t there last night.”

  His companion chuckled. “It’s not the worst thing that could be in your tent.”

  “What could be worse?”

  “A badger,” said Sigwulf. Ludwig opened his mouth to speak but was cut off. “Don’t ask!”

  Ludwig shrugged his shoulders, turning his attention to the pot. “What have you got there?”

  “Gruel.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve never heard of gruel?”

  “Can’t say I have," said Ludwig. "Care to enlighten me?”

  “It’s a thin porridge,” said Sigwulf, “made from oats.”

  “It doesn’t smell like porridge.”

  The giant sighed. “No, it doesn’t, does it? I’m terrible at this sort of thing.”

  “Then why are you cooking it?”

  “It’s my turn.”

  A yawn drew their attention. Dorkin approached the fire, took one sniff and winced as the aroma met his nostrils. “Let me guess,” he said. “Sig’s been cooking again.”

  “It’s gruel,” offered Ludwig.

  “It certainly doesn’t smell like it."

  “It’s not my fault,” repeated Sigwulf. “I never learned how to cook.”

  Dorkin frowned. “I can tell.” He turned to Ludwig with a smile. “He’s the only person I know who can burn water.” Returning his attention to the pot, he peered inside. “You better let me take over there, big man.”

  “Be my guest,” said Sigwulf. He took a seat on the ground, soon joined by Ludwig.

  “That’s one more thing I know about you,” said Ludwig. “You never learned to cook.”

  “I confess, it’s true. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Did you ever learn to prepare food?”

  “Alas, no. Our household had a cook, quite an accomplished one, I might add. Often was the night my father would entertain guests. I had my issues with the man, but I have to admit he set a fine table.”

  “Do you miss it?” asked Sigwulf.

  “I miss having nice meals, but that’s about it. There’s nothing back there for me anymore.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She died some years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sigwulf. “That must have been difficult.”

  “It was. What of your folks? Are they still alive?”

  “I wish they were. Things would be a lot different.”

  “Different, how?”

  “Well, for one thing, I wouldn’t be here in the middle of nowhere, serving in one of the free companies.”

  “Then where would you be?”

  “Back home.”

  “In Braymoor?”

  Sigwulf eyed him warily. “You have an excellent memory.”

  “I know. It’s a curse.”

  Sigwulf shrugged. “You might as well know. You’ll find out eventually. The truth is, I was born in Abelard.”

  “Why hide that?”

  “Oh, there’s more to it, trust me.”

  “I’m all ears,” said Ludwig.

  “My family were lesser nobility, my father being a baron and all.”

  “Something we have in common,” said Ludwig.

  “Indeed. The politics of the kingdom were, at best, twisted, and I’m not sure I fully understand them now, even after all these years, but the long and the short of it is, the people rose up in rebellion.”

  “What happened?”

  “They assembled an army but were defeated in battle, at a place called Krosnicht. Unfortunately, my father was on the losing side.”

  “I presume he died?” said Ludwig.

  “He did, in battle. The rest of his army scattered to the four winds. I wasn’t there, mind, but my older brother was. In the aftermath, they stripped the family of its lands, and we fled to Braymoor. So you see, I didn’t exactly lie when I said that was where I was from.”

  “And your brother? Does he still live?”

  “No,” confessed Sigwulf, “though I do have a sister that’s out there somewhere, assuming she’s still alive.”

  “But if your father was a rebel, wouldn’t his name be recognizable?”

  “Yes, but my sister took another name, as did I.”

  “So Sigwulf isn’t your real name?”

  “It’s my middle name. My first name is actually Lucius.”

  “And your family name?”
<
br />   Sigwulf looked around, but only Dorkin was within earshot, and he was busy with the gruel. “Marhaven,” he whispered, “but if you tell anyone, I’ll have to kill you.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Ludwig, “your secret is safe with me. Does Cyn know?”

  “Yes. I told her long before we came to Erlingen.”

  “I can see why you’d want to keep quiet about it.”

  “Indeed. What about you? What’s your story? You didn’t murder your father, did you? I mean, it’s no business of mine if you did. It’s not like you’re the only murderer around here.”

  “I did not murder my father!” insisted Ludwig. “And what do you mean by that, anyway? Are you saying there are murderers nearby?”

  “Never mind that,” said Sigwulf, “continue with your story. You obviously didn’t get along with your father. Was it always so?”

  “Not while my mother lived, no, but after her death, he turned in on himself and mostly took to avoiding me.”

  “You likely reminded him of your mother. Was there a resemblance?”

  “To a certain extent, I suppose. We both had the same colour hair.”

  “Did she die in childbirth?”

  “No, of a fever," said Ludwig. "I was fifteen at the time.”

  “Just on the cusp of manhood.”

  “I suppose. In any event, it hit me hard.”

  “Did things get worse?”

  “They did. I could get used to being mostly ignored, but then he went on a trip at the behest of my cousin.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Yes, King Otto.”

  Sigwulf’s eyes went wide. “Your cousin’s a king?”

  “Well, second cousin, we share a great grandfather. Didn’t I mention that?”

  “You most certainly did not!”

  “Yes, well, the king sent my father on a diplomatic mission to Reinwick, and he came back with a new wife.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Sigwulf. “The complex diplomacy of the Petty Kingdoms at work again. You know, sometimes I think all nobles do is marry off their sons and daughters to make alliances.”

  “That’s precisely what they do.”

  “Yet you’re not married, or are you?”

  “No, I’m not,” said Ludwig. “Though I wanted to be.”

  “Ah,” said Sigwulf. “I sense a story here. Who was she?”