The Heat of Battle

[Lizzie B]

He'd cried. Her brother had broken down and started sobbing right in front of her. He wasn't one to show emotions. She hadn't seen him cry since her mother died, not since they were children. And when she'd tried to comfort him he'd hit her, apologizing later on. But there was no one there to stop him anymore. Father didn't care much what they did. That was probably why he'd sent her off to school shortly after.

But now she was of marrying age, sent home at the word of her engagement. They were only middle class, her father a wealthy merchant. But Lord Henry Andrews was a noble, with riches she could only imagine. The man was practically made of money. Unfortunately, he was also in his late forties. Her father was younger, and the thought of being his wife made her incredibly sick.

As her brother, Charles, sobbed in front of her she wanted to tell him that he was being ridiculous. At least he had a wife, a pregnant wife who was no doubt carrying a son. At least he loved her, at least she was pretty and kind and honorable. So what if he'd miss the birth? He would come home, he always had. "You'll be fine." she told him. "I'll take care of Mary-," "You don't understand Char!" he choked. "This isn't going to be a quick fight. I could be gone for months...a year even. And there's a good chance I won't make it out alive." he downed the dark, strong liquid in his glass and ran a hand over the stubble on his chin.

Pushing back from the table, his chair clattered to the floor and he didn't bother to pick it up. "I need to go train." She said it without really thinking, standing to follow him. "I'll help you." he turned to look at her as if she was crazy. "Charlotte..." "I'm coming with you." Maybe it was the alcohol running through his veins, maybe it was because he didn't want to be alone. Either way, he didn't protest, and she followed him out into the gardens. That was the night everything changed.

She spent more time with her brother in those two weeks than she had in her entire life. She spent her evenings in his secret shed where he kept his supplies, and in the large expanse of grass behind the house. They spoke of nothing but battle strategies, practicing sword play, talking about the horrors of war.

The plan didn't begin to form until the last few days. When her blisters were closing over and she saw her brother staring at his armor with a deep hatred and sadness. When her father asked her where she'd been spending her evenings and she said she'd been drawing the gardens. When Mary asked about a bruise on her arm and she said she'd bumped it against the dresser. When she started to dream of nothing but sword play, and Lord Andrews stopped by for dinner. When he wrapped his old, wrinkly hands around hers and told her how pleased he was that she was going to be his wife.

Their last night together was nothing special. They finished and she offered to clean up. He nodded, giving a simple "Thanks Char. Sleep well." and walking away. She cleaned up the mess they'd made, but she didn't put it back in the shed. Instead she stayed out until it was long past dark, sitting and staring numbly at the wall. She'd stolen some of his clothes, altered them hastily and hid them in the shed. With them some food, a journal, a few simple things she couldn't bear to leave.

Eventually she stood numbly, finding her favorite sword, and letting down her waist length hair. She twisted it around her wrist, trying not to think about how she'd spent her entire life growing it. How everyone said it was her best feature. "Don't be a coward." she whispered, holding it out and slicing through. It took a great deal of effort, but eventually she was left with a heavy, long handful of hair. She'd heard of girls selling their hair for money. Did they feel this sad afterwards?

Her head felt light, horrible light. She tied it back in a ribbon, shocked to find that it stopped just past her shoulders. No, she couldn't think about it. This was a choice she'd made. There was no life for her here, and she couldn't stand the thought of losing Charles. Mary would be broken, and her children fatherless. No, she couldn't let that happen...even if it meant she had to die for it.

She stripped and bound her breasts using long strips of cloth, packing a few extra just in case. And then she pulled on her brother's clothes, finding that she'd altered them well enough. But they felt strange, she felt...naked. Would anyone even buy that she was a man? She pulled on his armor over it, strapping herself in and packing her favorite sword, a small knife, and a bow and quiver she swung into her back. Next was the pack and the bed roll, so heavy she nearly tipped right over. But she couldn't look as if she was struggling. Men didn't struggle.

After standing in silence for a long moment, looking over her discarded dress and hair, she left the shed and headed for the stables. Along the way she caught her reflection in the pond, horrified to find that she really did look like a young man. She wanted to cry. Her whole life had been based around compliments. People telling her how pretty she was, how feminine. Father assuring her that without her looks she couldn't have earned such a worthy husband. Well, what was she now? Flat chested with short hair...ugly. For the first time in her life, she was truly ugly.

And it was with this thought echoing around in her mind that she stole a horse, and road off into the night. The letter and his paperwork was in her pack, telling her where she needed to go. She'd traveled often, and the roads were familiar, but it was different when you weren't riding in a coach. It was also quite different with a leg on either side of the horse. Easier to stay on, but not incredibly comfortable. And she felt...well, stupid.

Charlotte rode all night, stopping in the early morning on the side of the road to eat. This was when it finally hit her, what she'd done. She looked down at the food and lost her appetite, before breaking into a sob. Tired and defeated, she let them continue for a long moment until the sound of a carriage met her ears. Hastily she wiped away the tears, putting the food back into her satchel and climbing hastily into the saddle. It was just a young man with a cart full of firewood, but he did little more than glance up at her and nod casually. Casual? So she did look the part. Unsure whether to be comforted or ashamed, Charlotte pushed her emotions aside and the horse forward. She arrived mid day at the meeting point, shocked to see the mess of men. There were so many of them, more than she'd ever seen in her entire life. Laughing, talking, cursing, bickering, drinking. They all looked so casual, so relaxed, so at ease.

She felt as if she was stepping into a pen full of wolves with a bleeding wound. Dismounting her horse, she made her way through the crowd, trying to look at bored as possible. It didn't work. "You lost boy?" an older man inquired, grinning down at her with what seemed to be pure amusement. Oh no, she was going to have to talk. "No." she answered, keeping her voice as low as was comfortable, trying not to force it. He didn't seem to find anything wrong with it. Boy, huh? She could be a boy. It would probably be easier than passing off as a man. "I'm looking for an Edward Neville." the man pointed at a figure off to the side and she nodded curtly, trying not to smile. It was instinct, to smile at a man. Women were supposed to be happy and pleasant at all times. However, she wasn't a woman anymore. If she'd thanked the man and batted her eye lashes, he probably would have hit her. She pushed her way through the crowd, making her way towards the man. "Excuse me." she managed, wondering if it sounded too formal. Their eyes met then, and she wondered if he could see the fear in her blue grey eyes.

[Alkeni Synair]

Edward Neville had known from an early age he'd end up where he was, commanding a mercenary company.

Not because it had been some childhood dream of his, some long-held fantasy to command the scum of England in battle for anyone who would pay. It was hard, generally unpleasent work, even if it could be quite lucrative at times.

Born to Lord Richard Neville, the Earl of Salsbury and a serving maid, Edward Neville had known from the begining that he'd never be inheiriting anything except for the shame of his birth. Oh, sure, he'd been raised alongside his elder, legitamite brother, and taught much the same as his brother was - sword play, the proper demeanor, Latin, law, and so on and so on. But without any estates to administrate, as they'd all go to his brother anyway, he didn't have any means of supporting himself. He had no practical skills - not that he looked at it that way, since despite his bastardy, he was a noble, and thought like a noble - and his base-born nature precluded him from his only options would have been entering the Church, entering seminary and becoming a priest or a monk. Which he sure as hell had no intention of doing, since swearing off of women was not something he wanted to do. That left warfare. Working for his father - well, he wasn't fond of the old bastard.

So he'd set up this company, and had done well over the last five years. He'd fought in battles in France, Wales, the Midlands, and along the border with Scotland. Now he was going back to the north, though not to fight the Scots. His Father and the other major noble in the north, Henry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, were at it again. For reasons no one knew - Edward presumed that whatever the reason was, it was too old to matter, and probably something stupid like someone using the wrong fork at a fancy dinner - the House of Percy and the House of Neville had been at odds in the north for a long time. And this rivalry had flared up again into low-burn brushfire wars.

Henry Percy had decided to hire his company - along with other companies - to supplement his men at arms for this latest round of warfare, that might see a few villiages change hands at best. The prospects for loot - the prime source of enrichment of a mercenary - were limited, but Henry Percy paid well, and there was little else to do at the moment, since the final withdrawal from France last year, after over a hundred years of warfare with the nation across the Channel.

Edward turned to the new arrival. He didn't recognize the young man - hell, boy -at all, and given the way he'd just walked up without even a salute or remotest gesture of respect - he didn't stand on military protocol as much as some, but more than most mercenary captains, who were little better than slovenly brigands leading even more slovenly brigands.

"Who are you then?"

[Lizzie B]

He was attractive, in a rugged way. Under any other circumstances she would have smiled and flirted her way easily into his good graces. 'So tell me Sir, do you ride often?' 'Can you play any instruments?' 'Do tell me all about your line of work, I've always been curious about mercenaries'. They would all go unspoken, sitting useless inside her brain. How did men bond? They drank, they talked about women, they drank...who was she? Oh, her brother.

"Charles Darcy." she said, finally breaking her gaze away from him and reaching into her pack. She pulled out the papers and handed them to him, hoping she'd given the right ones. She'd always thought it was stupid, the way her parents had named them. Charlotte and Charles. They called them both Char, or Charlie, which had become terribly confusing until she was too old for nicknames. But then again, it was quite useful now. She was much more likely to respond to Charles than whatever other awful name she would have managed to make up.

This was where Charles went when he was away? It seemed...well, horrible. She'd always imagined something more noble, more...civilized. A few men had their shirts off, which was both incredibly distracting and worrisome. Was she going to be expected to...? Well, she wouldn't. She couldn't. What would they do if she was discovered? Hang her? Behead her? Send her home with shame so she could marry that disgusting old man?

Or would he even want her? Would anyone want her? No. Definitely not. She'd end up an old maid...an old maid with short hair. Maybe Mary would let her tend the children? Or maybe her father would kick her out? That was why there were crazy, old homeless women. It was all making sense now.

This was the right man wasn't it? "You're Edward Neville?" she asked, wondering if this was the entirely wrong name to call him. But what else could she say? Sir? Should she have added a 'sir'?

[Alkeni Synair]

"I generally go by Captain Edward or Sir, but yes, I am Edward Neville." This was Charles Darcy? Not quite what he expected, but then, the mercenary profession wasn't an ideal career choice for most. Darcy had needed money, and he hadn't had many options at that moment. And people had a way of surprising you, in this line of work. Not all of his soldiers were that visibly strong, but his mercenaries fought more with the science of soldiers, rather than the art of warriors. Strength mattered less than discipline and skill - though strength was a nice bonus of course.

He took the profferred papers. He doubted they'd not check out. His company wasn't going to be privy to vital inteligence, so he had his doubts that this...young man - hell, boy - could possibly be some kind of spy, and there was no reason for anyone to impersonate someone else to get a place in his company.

He looked the papers over, and as he'd expected, they checked out. These were the papers of Charles Darcy, and this was Charles Darcy - Edward was not an easy man to lie to. He handed the papers back, mentally going over the roster for his company. Finally he settled on an assignment for Charles. He pointed across the camp. "I'll assign you to Rashid's section. Report to him, tell him I assigned you to him. He's the absurdly tall Moor. You can't miss him." He'd occasionally stopped to wonder how the Moor had ended up in England, and his insistence on maintaining his devotion to that heathen religion of his was a minor problem - though mercenaries were the last people to be making moral judgements - he was good at what he did - killing people and leading soldiers - and so Edward had put him in charge of the three sections he'd divided his company into. "He just prefers to go by Rashid." He waved his hand in dismissial. "Go."

OOC: In case you don't know, 'Moor' was the term for a Black Person in the time this rp takes place. Specifically an Islamic Black person from Nnorthern Africa or Southern Spain.

[Lizzie B]

Sir, of course. He was her commanding officer wasn't he? How stupid could she be? As he looked over her papers she felt her entire body go tense. What if something was wrong? What if she was discovered? Would they kill her right there on the spot? Or send her home humiliated? Or...or something worse? She held her breath, waiting in suspense for any sign of confusion or anger in his expression. But there were none.

When he handed them back she folded them and stuffed them into her pack. He told her that she was assigned to a Moor, and she looked up at him in confusion. Was he serious? The sharp 'Go' was her answer, and she managed a nod, turning and scanning for the tall black man. Needless to say, he wasn't hard to find. Charlotte was incredibly confused about the whole thing. Was this normal? Her brother would have served under the command of a Moor?

She knew friends that had them as servants, but she'd only seen one or two in her life. In all honesty, she really didn't know what to think of them. Hoping her expression was the right one, she approached the man. He caught site of her and watched her walk, expression looking generally amused. "Yes?" he said in an odd accent, looking down at her with...was that amusement? "I've been assigned to you by, the...uhm...Captain." Ten minutes in and she was already struggling over her words. But the next part was easy, she'd seen her brother do it a million times. "The name's Charles Darcey." Had she actually sounded like Charles? Was that something to be proud of?

She stuck out her hand and the man shook it a little roughly, leaving her fingers feeling sore. "Rashid. You're tiny, aren't you?" yes, that was amusement sparkling in those dark eyes. He was trying to keep his expression neutral, something the two men behind him weren't bothering with. Charlotte didn't quite know how to respond, so she choked out an awkward. "Yes?"

[Alkeni Synair]

Rashid considered what to do with this new arrival. He didn't look like much, but like Edward, he knew full well how little that meant. Most people were shorter than he was - certainly, he was taller than any of the 'Englishmen' he'd ever seen, though he'd hardly seen every person in the land. When Rashid had first met Captain Edward - a full head and some shorter than he was - he'd expected to defeat the shorter, less muscular man in short time. Instead, the Captain had disarmed him - and it was a good thing the both of them had agreed to not fight to the death beforehand.

So Rashid knew not to judge this Charles Darcy - these infidel Europeans and their odd names, though he knew they, in keeping with their lack of sense, Europeans found practical Arabic names to be just as strange - simply by his small stature and slight build. Though he doubted he would prove to be anywhere near Captain Edward's skill - few did, the Moor had observed. He needed to know just how good Charles was, so he called over another soldier, an Irishman named Liam.

"Liam, this is Charles Darcy. He's new. I want to see what he has." Liam drew his sword. Rashid nodded at her to do the same. "Nothing worse than scratching, or the Captain will...cross." He said, with a hint of amusment. "Fight to disarm or surrender. Go."