Prologue-Meet Ilsa Steiner
It was another typical day in the Mercenary Tavern, as the French and English had dubbed the unofficial base for the various mercenary troops that had come to France. Warriors from around the world spent the denier they'd earned from their last contract on food, alcohol, and enough new equipment for their next contract. Also typical was the the chatter between the fighters; mercenaries laughed together about battles they'd been on opposite sides of, talked about new and strange weapons and warriors they'd seen, and gossiped about various figures in the conflict. At one table the subject had drifted to a certain troop of German mercenaries.
"They make a comical sight on the battlefield," Naran chuckled, "Ilsa standing there with a sword longer then she is tall and landsknechts on both sides towering head and shoulders over her."
The young Mongol chuckled into his drink, William, Magnus, and Georges sharing his table. "It may look funny to you, but it just shows how tough that girl really is." the tavern keeper called from behind the bar.
"What do you mean?" Naran asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Somehow, that girl earned those big German bastards' respect," Magnus explained, "no small task from what I hear." The one-eyed tavern keeper nodded approvingly to the young Irishman and returned to his costumers. On his way to refill a loud mercenary's ale, he gave a friendly smile to Joan of Arc, who was nursing a cup of honey water. The Maid of Orleans never drank.
Just as Magnus and company where returning to their chat, the door of the tavern swung open and a squad of landsknechts entered. They were tired and dirty, many with fresh blood staining their garish outfits, but as confident and boastful as ever. At the head of the squad stood their leader, Ilsa Steiner; the stocky, four foot eleven young woman sauntered in casually, her massive zweihander rested across her shoulders and her hands propped on the handle and blade to steady it. Measuring five feet ten inches, the sword was in fact longer then Ilsa was tall.
Seeing her friend, Joan finished off her drink and walked over to the group with a smile. The French heroine's smile faltered, however, when she got a good look at Ilsa. Not noticing the girl's discomfort, Ilsa smiled, "Gutentag, Joan, vat can I do for you?"
Joan cleared her throat and answered, "I-I was 'oping we could 'ave one of our talks."
At this point, Ilsa raised an eyebrow, "Something wrong?" Over Joan's shoulder the young landsknecht noticed the tavern keeper tug on his shirt. A moment later, Ilsa realized she was still wearing her long red coat, the one she wore when fighting for the English. "Uh, ja, ve talk, Joan. Go up to mein room, I vill be along."
As Joan left, Ilsa set a large bag of denier in front of the tavern keeper, "Subtract da value of vatever mein boys drink from dat." Her men cheered, some affectionately patting her on the head as they moved to the bar. Chuckling at the gesture that once annoyed her, Ilsa made her way to the back of the tavern and hung her sword on the tavern's communal weapons rack then moved to her locker. She quickly took off her red coat and hung it up then, after a moment of thought, grabbed her blue (French contract) long coat. She closed her bright blue eyes and splashed water on her face to wash the blood off her left cheek (the tavern keeper left a bowl of water out for just that purpose) and went up the stairs as she pulled the blue coat on.
On the way, Ilsa thought over the battle she'd been in that afternoon. "Well done, Lady Steiner!" Prince Edward had praised when she and her men had stormed their objective, helping the English win the battle. Ilsa herself had beheaded the French Base Commander. Now she was on her way to have a friendly chat with one of France's greatest heroines. Father was all about loyalty, Ilsa thought wearily, Wonder what he'd think of me hopping from one side to the other.
Ilsa entered her room to find Joan sitting on her bed, resting against the wall. The French champion must have noticed the mercenary's change in wardrobe, giving an appreciative smile at the gesture. Ilsa pulled off her huge feathered red hat, allowing her strawberry blond hear to fall freely and sat on the edge of the bed as she tossed it to her dresser. "So Joan, vat do you vant to talk about?"
"Actually, I was zinking we could talk about you," Joan said sitting up, "You've done more to 'elp me zen you could know, Ilsa, letting me talk about my troubles without judgment. I was 'oping I could do zat for you."
Ilsa was taken aback by this, she'd never been one to talk about her feelings. Her role as Joan's confidant had simply been an easy way to help her friend vent. Somewhat put on the spot, Ilsa was able to think of one thing that had been vexing her. "I'm not quite."
"...Beg pardon?"
"Everyvon thinks I'm dis stoic, taciturn fighter," Ilsa grumbled, "I'm German! Mein English und French aren't dat gut! DAT'S vy I don't talk much vith da other mercenaries."
Joan giggled at the little landsknecht's outburst. "See? Didn't zat feel good?"
Ilsa smiled and regarded her friend, "I admire you, Joan. Nine of ten contracts mean nothing to me, dere just vays to get money on da same battlefields over und over." she sighed, "Sometimes, I'm not even sure vich side I'm on. But you und-" da Black Prince, "...another kommandant I respect, you believe in vat you're fighting for. I vise I vas dat dedicated to something."
"Thank you," Joan's expression became curious, "Whose's ze ozere commander? Lord de Richemont?"
"Ja, dat's him," It's not a lie, I respect Arthur too.
The two girls talked for a while longer, until finally Joan had to return to Calais for a meeting with la Hire and de Rais. Ilsa walked her friend out, trading a gutantag for an au revoir, and then went to the bar to order a pint. Sigh, I really miss beer steins, the young mercenary thought, remembering many a happy drunken night in her hometown of Hamburg. Sensing eyes on her, Ilsa turned to see Naran and company eyeing her. "Vat?"
"Another good 'talk' with your friend," Naran said with a smirk.
Ilsa sensed there was something off, but her limited understanding of English made it hard to figure out what. "Vat are you talking about, speak sense!"
"He's suggestin' you and the Maid are lovers." Magnus calmly explained. Ilsa nearly fell out of her chair. She'd been with a few girls before, usually after too much to drink, but Joan would never go for that. In any case how was two girls being in a room together every now and then automatically interpreted to mean they were fucking each other?
"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Ilsa." William said consolingly, "Look at Karen and Diane; they don't try to hide from anyone." Ilsa followed the timid youth's gesture to a corner where Diane was sitting in Karen's lap, unabashedly leaning against her lover.
No longer willing to dignify the boys at the table with her attention, Ilsa turned to the tavern keeper. "I need da scariest, most dangerous contract you've got for tomorrow. Und Villiam und Naran are coming vith me."