The Dark Lord's Handbook (20 page)

His aide was waiting for him in his tent.

“Good morning, sir,” said Sergei as the Count took his station behind his desk.

Given his tent was somewhere his men were unlikely to see him that often, the chair was padded, and inwardly he sighed with pleasure as he sat.

“Morning, Sergei. How’s it looking today?”

His aide placed a mug of field coffee to his right.

“Not too good, sir,” said his aide, straightening. “Will you be wanting breakfast, sir?”

The Count’s wife had got it into her head that they would live longer if they ate more fruit and vegetables. That meant eating less meat and so breakfast at the castle these days consisted of a fruit compote (quite what a compote was the Count had never been clear on as it seemed to be a fancy way of saying a bowl of stewed fruit). A field breakfast on the other hand consisted of the greater part of a pig, eggs, fresh bread covered in two inches of butter, and coffee blacker than night and as thick as mud. A few years ago he would have tucked away such a breakfast every day with relish, but his appetite was not what it used to be.

“No thank you, Sergei. The coffee will do. So how many knights today?”

“One, sir.”

That was, as Sergei had said, not good. “All right, we may as well get him out of the way, then I’ll do a snap inspection of the men.”

His aide clicked his heels, did a smart about turn, and left the tent. A minute later the awning parted and a man that resembled a peacock followed his aide in. He was not in armour but dress more suited to court, with a puffy sleeved vest and balloon pantaloons. He carried a kerchief that he held to his nose. The Count barely noticed the latrine smell of the camp (an inevitable stench when several thousand men crapped in the same hole) and so he was in no doubt that this fop had not spent much time with an army.

“Baron Pierre de Fanfaron,” announced Sergei.

The Count groaned inside. He needed men who would strip pine trees with their teeth and here was a fop whose only acquaintance with pine would have been its scent in a privy.

The Baron performed a complex bow. “At your pleasure, Count.”

“I’m sure,” said the Count.

The Baron reached inside his vest and produced a parchment and laid it on the table in front of the Count. “I present you my credentials, sir. You will be finding my certificates of fencing from the King of Pointelle’s own tutor and a word of recommendation from the King himself.”

The Count knew he was only going through the motions so he picked up the parchment and ran an eye over it. If he had needed a man to duel an army to death then this was his lucky day; the Baron had a kill record in matters of honour second to none. Additionally, the hand written note from the King of Pointelle assured the Count that the Baron of Fanfaron was an excellent raconteur and good company. Perfect.

“And what else, besides a useful rapier and a good story, might you offer me?” said the Count, setting the document down.

“Why, my company of chefs,” said the Baron with a faint smile.

The Count though he had misheard. For a second he thought the Baron had said chefs. It must have been his accent. “A company, excellent.” It wasn’t many but one hundred men were not to be sniffed at.

“You would like to see them, yes?” said the Baron.

“Certainly, Baron. Shall we?” said the Count, getting to his feet.

Outside the sun has risen high enough to take the chill out of the morning. The Count led the way towards his parade ground with his aide fallen in behind. The sound of an army under training filled the air; the clash of sword on sword, sergeants barking orders, drums beating.

“So tell me, Baron, how was your journey?” asked the Count, feeling the need to make small talk. It was something he was not generally good at and avoided where possible.

The Baron waved his kerchief as if dismissing some trifle. “It was adequate, but I am glad I have brought my men. Your sausage that I have been forced to eat is, excuse me for saying, but it is peasant fair. Lucky for you that I have come and that will change.”

Again, the Baron seemed to be talking in riddles and once again the Count dismissed it as cultural misunderstanding.

They arrived at the parade ground where the Baron’s men were drawn up in four neat rows of twenty five. It was not quite what the Count had been expecting. He had imagined a company made up of battle hardened veterans; the kind of veteran that had a hint of grey in his bushy moustache, scars across his face, a tattoo on his arm, and a slight limp from an old wound that he complained about when it was cold.

Unless he was very much mistaken what was standing rigidly to attention in front of him, spoons snapped upright in a salute, stiff blue and white striped aprons catching the breeze, were one hundred kitchen hardened cooks. Apart from a good number of impressive moustaches, there was little to suggest they had ever been in battle.

“Mon Bataillons des Chefs,” said the Baron proudly.

The Count was at a loss for words. Was the man insane? He didn’t need haute cuisine, he needed killers; preferably mounted and covered in half inch plate.

“They are impressive, non?” said the Baron, striding along the row.

The Count felt like he was in a bad dream as he trailed behind.

“Indeed,” said the Count, hoping the despair he felt was hidden in his voice.

The Baron stopped at one chef and exchanged words in his native tongue. The man positively bristled with pride.

He’s complimenting the man’s pastries
, thought the Count.

“I don’t suppose they can fight?” asked the Count when they reached the end of the first line.

The Baron looked at the Count with open bewilderment.

“Forgive me,” said the Count. Obviously the only thing they could fight was an urge to over season sauce.

The Baron had stopped and was continuing to frown at the Count. Then a smile broke on the Baron’s face and he slapped the Count heartily around the shoulder and laughed.

“Very good, my Count. Très drôle. Very funny. You have some wit, no?”

The Baron continued his inspection down the second line of men. There was a strange air about them that the Count decided must be garlic.

“I’m sorry, Baron, it was impolite of me to ask. I’m sure they are most excellent cooks.”

The Baron came to a sudden halt and spun to face the Count, outrage burning in his eyes.

“Cooks? You think these men are cooks?” The Baron cast his eye back beyond the Count. “That man there, you see? That man has served a regiment of men the freshest hot croissant you have ever tasted before the Battle of Perigourd. You have heard of that battle, monsieur?”

The Count had. While there had been few wars in recent history, the civil war for the throne of Pointelle five years ago had been one of the larger and bloodier affairs. The Battle of Perigourd had been the deciding engagement, when the King’s army had crushed a peasant army that sought to install a common man as head of state.

“Cook? Merde. These men here, my Count, are the best chefs de bataillon the world has ever seen. Do you know what happened at that battle?”

The Count shrugged. One lesson he had learnt in life was that when someone was in mid tirade any questions asked were generally of the rhetorical kind.

“Very well, I shall tell you. Our army was small but well fed. The peasants, they were starving. We engaged them and victory looked certain but we had underestimated these peasants and their hunger. They had caught wind of these men’s efforts.” The Baron waved his arm expansively. “And it drove them crazy. They fought like wild men. There were so many. Some broke through and went straight for our camp. You know what that means, yes?”

Indeed the Count did. Many an army had broken with its camp threatened. Maintaining a line of retreat and supply was all important to an army’s morale. Knowledge that your belongings were being had away behind you resulted often in trying to leave whatever battle you were in as swiftly as possible to try and catch the thieving bugger who was about your stuff.

“These men, these few heroes, were all that stood between this ferocious horde and the lunch that was cooking. It was an exquisite casserole de boeuf.” A Baron wiped a tear from his eye. “Pardon me. Just to remember the gallant deeds of these men fills me with pride. They fought like lions, these
cooks
as you like to call them.”

The Count was rapidly sifting through what he knew of the battle. It was in many of the texts as an example of how to be careful with one’s supply line. The King had been lucky in that he had not quite committed all his reserves. If he remembered correctly, a small company had held the peasants who broke through long enough for the rear elements to peel back and help. It had been a massacre. Then a name came to mind and with it a realisation.

“These are the Butchers of Perigourd!”

The Baron sniffed. “That name was given, but these men are chefs. They will kill for their entrées and die for their casserole.”

“You must forgive me, Baron,” said the Count bowing. “I am honoured that you have come. I would be indebted if your company of chefs would join this army.”

The Baron raised his nose. “We may join you, but there are conditions. We are masters in the field kitchen. We must have absolute control. I insist.”

“Most assuredly, Baron.”

“We shall need dish washers.”

“You shall have them.”

“And fresh vegetables.”

“Of course.”

“Very well, then we will cook.”

“Sergei, show the Baron to his quarters and see that his men are given full control of the field kitchen.”

The Count’s aide snapped a salute. “Sir, yes, sir.”

The Baron’s nose lowered two inches and he smiled. “You like, how you say, coq au vin? Chicken with wine?”

The Count had no idea what that was but nodded seriously, “Absolutely, Baron. My favourite.”

The Baron’s smile widened. “Very well, we shall dine on that tonight.” The Baron turned and addressed one of the men with a volley of words. The man barked a reply and saluted with his spoon. “That is done. Shall we retire?”

The Count was about to explain that, much as he would love to spend the rest of the morning in the company the Baron, the fact was he had his own men to inspect when from the far side of the field a commotion arose. To the Count’s battle trained ear it sounded as though they were under attack. But how could that be? The only hostile force in the area was his wife when he came home late from work.

“Some trouble?” enquired the Baron.

Among the ranks of chefs, heads turned in the direction of the noise. Fillet knives appeared surreptitiously.

“I’m sure it’s nothing. I suggest you stay here, and attend your men, Baron, and I shall attend mine and see what the matter is. My horse, Sergei.” He turned to see where his aide was but he was not to be seen. “I shall return momentarily, Baron.”

The Count set off across the parade square. On the far side he could see a growing knot of men. As he approached, men parted and casualties were helped away with what looked like sword wounds. One screaming man was clutching a bloody stump where his hand was missing.

The Count broke into a trot and barked orders at the men around him. “You, take the wounded to the rear. Sergeant, take twenty men and form them up here in case the enemy breaks through. You, give me your sword and then find another. You, you and you, form up on me and get me through that.” He pointed at the scrum ahead of them.

The detail formed a wedge in front of the Count and pressed their way through the men. As they got closer to the front, the Count’s initial concerns began to dampen. It was obvious that whomever were being fought were few in number. He could see a semicircle of men around a large tree that was on the edge of the parade ground next to the wood that stretched off to the south.

His escort finally barged their way through. The scene that greeted Count Vladovitch was not what he had been expecting. Rather than some small group of bandits that perhaps had been caught stealing, he was faced with a single man, dressed in half-plate, his back to the tree, waving a massive two handed sword like it was a plaything. The blade dripped blood and there was a severed hand on the ground. His armour looked highly functional in a way that hearkened back to the old days when it was intended for battle rather than to impress the peasantry. There was a wild look about the man’s eyes as he held the soldiers at bay. He needn’t have worried as the Count’s men were less than inclined to get within sword reach. To the Count’s left, a group of archers muscled through and raised their bows.

“Hold!” commanded the Count.

The archers held their bows raised, strings half cocked.

“Some one tell me what is going on here,” continued the Count. In true military fashion every set of eyes had somewhere else to look in an attempt to not have to answer that question. The Count was familiar with the ploy. “You, that man,” he said. He knew the command was irresistible and sure enough, a bearded veteran that the Count knew well turned to look. “Petor, explain.”

The man looked embarrassed.

“Speak up, sergeant.”