Rotterdam, Dutch Republic

The port city of Rotterdam was always a very busy place. The ubiquitous chattering of seagulls was drowned out by the noise of foreign ships being unloaded with fresh goods from all over the world and merchants eager to receive their new stock. The sounds of carts on cobblestone roads mingled with the cacophony of travelers and merchants shouting in different languages and livestock being sold at auction. The air smelled of cinnamon, tea, gunpowder and salt from both the sea and the stalls of the salt merchants.

The Dutch Republic was a trader’s paradise. It boasted the lowest interest rates in the entire world and was home to the best business minds in Europe.

William MacRae was one of these minds. Though not a Dutchman himself, MacRae was a skilled businessman. While others worried about the rising or falling prices in the Dutch stock exchange, MacRae’s fortunes were determined by the tides of war. As the leader and proprietor of the Talbot Company, MacRae bragged that he had the best and most diverse free company in all of Europe.

Within the ranks of the company were men from all over Europe – pikemen from Spain, Switzerland and the Holy Roman Empire, musketeers from France and Sweden, cavalry from Poland, Saxony and Russia, swordsmen from Italy, and various unspecialized troops from every corner of Europe, including Christian exiles from the Ottoman Empire and irregular troops from MacRae’s native Scotland. These men were his product just as much as bales of cloth were the products of the textile merchant. And here he was, content to sit, like the other businessmen were, by the window of a dockside tavern, calmly smoking his pipe and nursing a glass of whiskey as he waited for his ship to come in.

The man himself looked nothing like a warrior at all, sporting a fashionable red leather jerkin over a doublet of the same color. On his head he wore a red cavalier hat with a single white ostrich feather in it, to show his wealth to the world. His features were angular and sharp, with deep, dark eye bags from long sleepless nights. What stood out about him though was the fact that he only had one true eye, having lost the other one in a duel with a rival clansman some five years ago. He had replaced it with a glass one, which did not move when his good one did.

His good eye now stared out into the harbor, as a ship flying English colors came into view, several miles out to sea. The aptly named “Fortune”, when docked, promised to bring him a fresh batch of his countrymen from Britain, ready to put their swords and pikes to whomever their client willed. All of the recruiters he sent throughout Europe were ordered to muster today at the Rotterdam harbor with their fresh recruits behind them so that the company would be able to march to the main guild house as a group. Many men would be needed for MacRae’s newest campaign, and many men had answered MacRae’s call for adventure and money.

The stomping of boots in cadence interrupted the din of the portside markets. MacRae shifted his gaze to the source of the noise and found two of his officers, Gunther Jaeger and Otto Koenigsherr, riding on horseback up the road towards the port, with fifty-three enlisted volunteers marching in tow behind them. The men who had once been beggars now wielded pikes that were ten feet long over their shoulders, purchased with company funds as an investment in an uncertain product. They marched with their feet in step and their heads held high. No one could have known that not even two weeks ago, many of the men were begging on the streets. It took twelve days of training on the march from Vienna to Rotterdam to mold them into the soldiers that MacRae saw before him. As soldiers, they were not fully capable of facing a determined enemy, but at the very least, they had been taught the basics of drill.

The two Germans rode in front of MacRae, dismounted their mounts, and saluted their master simultaneously. One could tell a lot about an officer’s character by how he saluted. Gunther simply touched the brim of his hat with his fingertips and made a slight bow, while Otto removed his helmet completely and bowed as low as his armor would allow.

MacRae returned their salutes with a wave of his hand and said, “Are ye ready, me boys?” in a heavy Scottish accent.

“Ja mein Herr.” replied Otto, “We are prepared to march on your command.”

Gunther remained silent, awaiting orders.

“Ye will have to excuse me. Ye are the foremost to turn up to me assembly. We will have to wait a wee bit more for the rest of the companies. Come, me lads, join yer colonel for a drink.”

As the two Germans joined him, the stomping of boots came to an abrupt halt. Their men had come to a halt outside the tavern and stood at attention, dutifully waiting until they were ordered to move. The men were green as the grass though, and Gunther expected the formation to break ranks out of boredom within the next five minutes.

MacRae motioned to the bottle of whiskey that sat on his table, offering his officers a drink. Gunther respectfully declined, but Otto took a swig straight from the bottle without a moment’s hesitation.

“What say ye of the quality of these men hither?” said MacRae, cocking his head in the direction of the men outside.

Gunther sat in stoic silence, letting his colleague speak for both of them.

“In all honesty, mein Herr,” said Otto, “the men themselves can be trained, however, I doubt they are of the sort of stock and attitude that we need for a sustained kriegskampagne… ah, campaign of war, sir.”

“This is nary yer first time to recruit soldiers from among the scum of the earth, Master Koenigsherr. What makes these ones so different?”

“Herr Oberst… ah, colonel, if I may speak plainly, when I used to recruit soldiers in my home region of Saxony, I would always find men who had the hearts of warriors, who only needed the slightest reason to throw away his life for his cause – whether that be to defend his hearth and home, to avenge the death of a loved one or friend, or to simply stop the spread of foreign Catholicism. I see no such motivation in the men I bring here now. All I see is sickness, desperation, and poverty.”

“But can they be trained?”

“It will be difficult but…”

“Good. As long as ye can prevent the men from turning tail halfway through the battles we will be encountering, the men should hold. Master Koenigsherr, these men are pikemen. They are nary meant to be skilled, smart, or washed. Up go the pikes, down go the enemy cavalry, while yer muskets and horse do all the other killing that needs to be done.”

Otto nodded, deferring to the wisdom of his superior.

“It makes nary a lick of sense to subject the men to the elements while they could be quartered and rested for the long march ahead. We will have to wait a spell longer for the other companies to assemble. I suggest finding suitable lodging for them, Master Jaeger.”

Gunther saluted and turned to address the men, many of whom were already slouching on their pikes. Two had actually broken formation and were sitting on the pavement.

Gunther groaned and yelled “Gruppe! Stillgestanden!”

The novice pikemen sloppily came to attention, while the two that were sitting on the ground scrambled to get back into formation, but not before being stopped by Gunther.

“Not you two. Stay here. The rest of you, follow me. We will rest in the tavern. The two that elected to sit down while in formation will stand at attention out here as our watchmen until they are relieved.” he finished, glaring at the two.

Otto bowed to MacRae and joined Gunther in the formation.

“Some nice beer and a meat pie to regain our strength from a long ride sound nice right about now,” said Otto.

“I will secure provisions and distribute them among the men,” said Gunther, ignoring Otto’s invitation. “Would you mind taking care of their lodging, Herr Koenigsherr?”

“Of course, Herr Jaeger.” muttered Otto, somewhat put off by his comrade’s refusal to join him for a drink.

As the bottom tip of the sun’s disc barely skimmed the edge of the water over the horizon, the ships in the harbor were secured and their cargo unloaded. The gangplank of the “Fortune” was lowered and men – soldiers, not sailors – marched off the vessel and into the port town. These were the Britons that MacRae had been waiting for so eagerly. There were men of all shapes and sizes, and speaking all manner of dialects. Irishmen, Welshmen, and Scots had formed bonds amongst their kinsmen during the journey, and came off of the ship in groups, laughing and cursing with each other. The English followed, descending the gangplank in noisy droves, urged on by their sergeants and recruiters.

James Fletcher clung tightly to his bow. He had been encouraged to bring it with him on the voyage. He had spoken to no one during the entire trip. The sewn cotton clothes and posh accents of his countrymen from the north were intimidating to a poor debt-ridden peasant like himself. He heard them speak of the fame, wealth and glory that they would have, and how they would return to England and buy new land for productive businesses. Fletcher simply wanted to escape his debts.

While others had their belongings stowed away in haversacks, rucksacks, and bindles, Fletcher had nothing but the clothes on his back and the bow slung over his shoulder. Fletcher had scarcely been out of Bolingbroke Village before, and he was amazed at what he saw here in Rotterdam. Leaning over the railing, he saw that the buildings were made of carefully chiseled and wonderfully painted stone and brick, the streets were crowded with people, and the unfamiliar but enticing smells of all sorts of wonderful spices mixed with the fishy odor of freshly caught seafood confused his nose. He did not have much time to take in all these new sights, sounds, and smells, though. The crowd of English mercenaries behind him carried him like a wave off the boat and into the port. Not wishing to get lost, he had no choice but to follow them to the tavern where his employer waited.

The mass of soldiers congregated around the tavern, with sergeants barking orders to keep the men in line. The more seasoned soldiers got into neat, orderly formations, while the novices like Fletcher milled about with mouths agape in confusion. Unlike the German-speaking companies, they had no opportunities to practice marching drills while out at sea.

Meanwhile, a different company was arriving by foot. The sound of their drums could be heard even over the frustrated shouting of the English sergeants. From a southbound road came the Mediterranean contingent of Talbot Company. Unlike the Germans or the English, these southern Europeans were almost all professional fighters, and it showed. These Italians and their Spanish comrades marched in step, shoulder to shoulder, with their eyes facing forward. The pikemen and halberdiers, with their armor glistening in the sun, shouldered their weapons, and the swordsmen marched with their weapons sheathed at their hips, or if they carried great swords, resting the backs of their blades on their shoulders.

The leader of the swordsmen looked out of place, however. Clad in a colorful blue, white and red doublet, this officer marched out of step and appeared to be following the lead of the men rather than the other way around. This odd officer also had very feminine features, especially for a warrior.

Sophia Fortezza was sweating from the long march. They had been on the march for twelve days now and she was amazed at how the men had managed to keep their spirits up this long. They had taken rest stops every ten miles or so, at the discretion of the commander of pikemen, the recruiter Captain Toscana, who led the formation. The last stop they had taken was at the village of Rijsoord, about six miles away. Now that they were finally at their destination, Sophia resisted the urge to simply faint. Her sword, as light as it was, felt like a heavy beam of wood as it rested on her shoulder. Don Alfonso had told her that this was the proper way to march with it. The Don himself was so much worse off, having to lug a spontoon while wearing a heavy suit of armor, but he seemed to enjoy the march, at what he called “a slow pace.”

As the three hundred Italians and Spaniards assembled near the tavern, they blocked the streets around them with their formations, much to the chagrin of the Dutch locals. Their officers gave the command to rest, with Sophia repeating the command last, with more of a gasp than a bark.

Her men were not inspired in the least bit by her lack of military bearing and apparent weakness that she displayed during the march. Though she denied it at every turn, everyone knew that she was a woman, but none dared to speak against her because they knew that the company had a policy of executing mutineers. Many quietly talked amongst themselves that the company of swords was doomed to failure and death, but others hoped that there was still time for her to learn until the great campaign that they would inevitably undertake.

Sophia told her men to “stay put” as she broke ranks and walked slowly, gasping for air, to the front of the formation of halberdiers to meet with her mentor, Don Alfonso. The halberdiers gave her subtle condescending looks as she passed them. Some muttered in Spanish behind her back, and a few shook their heads in disgust.

These gestures of indignation only made her more determined to show them what she could do. She was not about to be replaced on her second week in command.

Upon reaching the front of the formation, she realized that Don Alfonso was gone. Panicking, she looked around rapidly for any sign of the Spaniard. Suddenly, she heard a whistle. Don Alfonso was calling for her from the tavern door.

“Teniente Bianchi,” said Don Alfonso, addressing Sophia by her masculine alias, “Come here and meet your colonel.”

The Spaniard and Captain Toscana were already standing in front of MacRae, who was inspecting the troops from a distance.

“I see two officers when I should have three.” the Scotsman said, “Where be the commander of swords?”

“Signor!” exclaimed Sophia as she ran up to meet them, heaving with her head hanging and resting her hands on her haunches. Her face remained obscured by her large hat. “Mi scuso del ritardo, signor.”

MacRae blinked once and turned to Captain Toscana. “Captain, did you no inform these folk that we speak English here?”

The Italian recruiter shrugged and said that he assumed that the other commanders already knew.

Talbot Company was an oddity within the mercenary companies of Europe. The universal military language was French, and almost every soldier drilled in that language and spoke it. MacRae, although he knew French himself, refused to speak it when he could, preferring the shorter, terser commands of the English language.

“Ye there,” he continued, “what be yer name?” MacRae could not yet see her face, as her head still hung low.

“Che cosa?” replied Sophia.

“If you will pardon my interruption, señor,” said Don Alfonso, stepping forward, “may I be allowed to interpret?”

“Aye, ye may.”

Turning to Sophia, the don said in Spanish, “He is asking for your name. Please tell me you know a tiny bit of English at least.”

Sophia raised her head slightly and shook it. She knew nothing of the English language, but that was not going to stop her. She immediately stood upright and walked past the don to present herself before MacRae.

“Lodovico Bianchi, signor. Al tuo servicio.” she said with a bow.

MacRae’s one eye could not see very well, but he knew what he saw when he looked at Sophia.

“What by God’s Blood is this? Who was the fuckin’ eedjit that allowed a lass into the ranks and signed her up as a bloody fuckin’ officer?”

Captain Toscana was sweating like a condemned man. The very thought that Sophia’s poorly constructed ruse would trick MacRae made him curse his own stupidity. He shut his eyes tight and slowly raised his hand to admit his fault, fully expecting MacRae to stab him on the spot.

The Scotsman sneered at his officer. “Were there no other suitable candidates to lead the swordsmen? Is this bloody girl the best ye have?”

Captain Toscana nodded slowly, unsure of whether he would be called out for lying.

“Yes sir,” he said. “She served under Ernst von Mansfeld during his Italian campaign. She has soldiered before.”

MacRae glared at him with his one eye and said, “If it cannot be helped, captain. I hope she serves the company well. I will nary think ill of ye if she can prove to be a fiery amazon on the field of war, but if she falters but once, yer neck be upon me blade.”

Toscana gulped and took a deep, grateful bow.

“And who might you be, Spaniard? Do not tell me that my fine Captain Toscana has set up a mere pauper with a stick to command my halberdiers.”

“No señor.” replied Don Alfonso, “I am Don Alfonso Villanueva y Santiago, former servant of his Catholic Majesty, King Felipe IV, serving under his brave and true regimiento de alabardas, and now, by your benefaction, your loyal capitan.”

MacRae nodded with approval.

“It is good to know ye. I am Colonel William MacRae, the leader of this fine company, and I expect ye to serve faithfully under myself and the officers appointed over ye. I remind ye that this is not a regular army but a company of free folk. Ye may leave the company at any time after informing either myself or a fellow officer; however, while ye serve under me, I expect ye to obey me orders and to execute them to the best of yer ability.”

There was at least one new officer with military bearing, MacRae thought. This other one, an Italian that spoke no English at all, would soon be a problem.

MacRae took small consolation in the fact that she was an Italian, like most of the other swordsmen, but was also apprehensive that the men might not want to follow a girl into battle, not that there was no precedence to this of course. An Italian noblewoman by the name of Caterina Sforza, merely a century ago resisted the mighty armies of the most powerful family in Italy, and before her, there was Joan of Arc, liberator of France, and Boudicca, whom Scots like MacRae considered a kinswoman. He wanted to be proved wrong because according to Toscana at least, he had no choice in the matter. This was his commander of swords, and she had to be at her best. The fate of her men depended on it.

“Master Spaniard,” said MacRae, “Tell the lass that I bid her welcome to me company.”

Don Alfonso opened his mouth to speak but was cut short before he could begin.

“Also, tell her that her ruse is as thin as the silk knickers she is wearing under her fuckin’ armor.”

Don Alfonso hesitatingly turned towards Sophia, whose eyes were wide open, eager to hear what the company’s leader had to say to her.

“This is Colonel MacRae. He leads this company, and bids you welcome. Be careful with this opportunity, hija. You can be a good soldier, but only if you listen,” said the don, making no mention of the fact that MacRae could see right through her disguise.

Sophia nodded and saluted MacRae with her sword.

The Scotsman nodded back to her and said to Don Alfonso,

“The lass must not rely on ye for very long. Teach her as much English as ye can. For now, the basic orders will suffice – attention, halt, charge, retreat, the facings and marching movements… I trust ye to fulfill this duty, Master Spaniard.”

“As you will, señor.”

“We settle here for the night. This tavern has rooms and food for the officers, the rest can sleep outside under their cloaks. Tomorrow, we have a big day ahead of us – I have gotten a client from the north – willing to pay a vast sum for a grand campaign.”

“Can you tell us any details, señor?”

“It would be best if I told the entire company all at once. Now rest yer men, Master Spaniard. I am leaving the good Captain Toscana here in Rotterdam to tend to Talbot Company’s main office, but ah, for the rest of us, tomorrow will be a day of adventure and profit for all.”