Sheepfarmer's Daughter
"And I say you will!" bellowed the burly sheepfarmer,
Dorthan Kanasson. He lunged across the table, but his
daughter Paksenarrion sidestepped his powerful arm and
darted down the passage to the sleeping rooms. "Pakse!" he
yelled, slipping his broad leather belt from its
loops. "Pakse, you come here now!" His wife Rahel and
three smaller children cowered against the wall. Silence
from the sleeping rooms. "Pakse, you come or it will be
the worse for you. Will you go to your wedding with welts
on your back?"
"I'll not go at all!" came the angry response.
"The dower's been given. You wed Fersin Amboisson next
restday. Now come out before I come in."
Suddenly she stood in the mouth of the passage, as tall as
he but slender, long blonde hair braided tightly. She had
changed to her older brother's clothes, a leather tunic
over her own shirt, and his homespun trousers. "I told you
not to give dower. I told you I wouldn't wed Fersin or
anyone else. And I won't. I'm leaving."
Dorthan glared at her as he wrapped the belt around his
right hand. "The only place you're going, you arrogant
hussy, is Fersin's bed."
"Dorthan, please-" began Rahel.
"Quiet! She's your fault as much as anyone's. She should
have been spinning at home, not running out on the moors
hunting with the boys."
Paksenarrion's gray eyes glinted. "It's all right, Mother;
don't worry. He'll remember someday that he's the one who
sent me out with the flocks so often. Father, I'm leaving.
Let me pass."
"Over my dead body," he grunted.
"If need be-" Paksenarrion leaped for the old sword,
Kanas's sword, over the fireplace. As she lifted it from
the rack, the belt caught her shoulders with its first
stroke. Then she was facing Dorthan, sword in hand, with
the firelight behind her. The sword felt easy in her grip.
Startled, Dorthan jumped back, swinging the belt wildly in
her direction. Paksenarrion took her chance and ran for
the door, jerked it open, and was gone. Behind her came
his furious bellow, and questioning calls from her
brothers still working in the barns, but Paksenarrion did
not slow or turn until she came to the boundary stone of
her father's land. There she thrust her grandfather's
sword into the soil.
"I won't have him saying I stole it," she muttered to
herself. She turned for a last look at her home. Against
the dark bulk of the hill, she could see light at the open
front door, and dark figures crossing and recrossing the
light. She could hear voices calling her name, then a deep
bellow from Dorthan, and all the shapes went in at the
door and shut the light in. She was alone, outside the
house, and she knew, as well as if she'd seen him do it,
that Dorthan had barred the door against her. She shook
herself. "It's what I wanted," she said aloud. "So now I'd
better go on with it."
The rest of that night she jogged and walked down the well-
worn track from her father's farm to Three Firs, warmed by
the thought of the coming adventure. She went over her
cousin's instructions time after time, trying to remember
everything he'd said about recruiting sergeants and
mercenary companies and training and drill. In the first
light of dawn she walked into Three Firs. Only in the
baker's house did she see a gleam of light behind closed
shutters, and a plume of smoke out the chimney. She
smelled no baking bread. She could not wait until the
first baking came out unless the recruiters were still in
Three Firs. She walked on to the marketplace. Empty. Of
course, they might not be up yet. She looked in the public
barn that served as an inn. Empty. They had left. She drew
water from the village well, drank deeply, and started off
again, this time on the wider track that led to Rocky Ford-
or so her cousin had said; she'd never been beyond Three
Firs.
As daylight came, she was able to make better time, but it
was nearly noon when she came to the outskirts of Rocky
Ford. The rich smells of cooking food from the inns and
houses nearly made her sick. She pressed on, through what
seemed to her like crowds, to the market square in the
town's center. There she saw the booth that Jornoth had
told her to look for, draped in maroon and white silk,
with spears for cornerposts. She paused to catch her
breath and look at it. On either side, a man-at-arms with
breastplate, helmet, and sword stood guard. Inside was a
narrow table, with one stool before it, and a man seated
behind. Paksenarrion took a deep breath and walked
forward.
As she reached the booth, she realized that she was taller
than either of the men-at-arms. She waited for them to say
something, but they ignored her. She looked inside. Now
she could see that the man behind the table had gray hair,
cropped short, and a neatly trimmed mustache. When he
looked up at her, his eyes were a warm golden brown.
"This is a recruiting station for Duke Phelan's Company,"
he said as he met her gaze. "Were you looking for
someone?"
"No. I mean, yes. I mean, I was looking for you-for a
recruiting station, I mean." Paksenarrion reddened with
embarrassment.
"You?" The man stared a moment, then looked down
briefly. "You mean you wanted to join the Company?"
"Yes. My-my cousin said such companies accepted women."
"We do, though not so many want to join. Look-mmm-let's
get a few things straight before we start. To join us you
must be eighteen winters old, healthy, with no
deformities, strong, tall enough-you have no problem there-
and not too stupid. If you're a drunkard, liar, thief, or
devil-worshipper, we'll throw you out the worse for wear.
You agree to serve for two years beyond your basic
training, which takes four to six months. You get no pay
as a recruit, but you do get room, board, and gear as well
as training. Your pay as a private in the Company is low,
but you'll share any plunder. Is that clear?"
"Aye," said Paksenarrion. "Clear enough. I'm over
eighteen, and I'm never sick. I've been working on the
moors, with sheep-I can lift as much as my brother Sedlin,
and he's a year older."
"Mmm. What do your parents think of your joining an army?"
"Oh." Paksenarrion blushed again. "Well, to be honest, my
father doesn't know that's where I am. I-I ran away."
"He wanted you to wed." The man's eyes had a humorous
twinkle.
"Yes. A pig farmer-"
"And you wanted someone else."
"Oh no! I didn't-I don't want to marry at all. I want to
be a warrior like my cousin Jornoth. I've always liked
hunting and wrestling and being outdoors."
"I see. Here, have a seat on the stool." While she sat
down, he fished under the table and came up with a leather-
bound book which he laid on top. "Let me see your hands-I
have to be sure you don't have any prison brands. Fine.
Now-you like wrestling, you say. You've arm wrestled?"
"Surely. With my family, and once at market."
"Good. Give me a try; I want to test your strength." They
clasped right hands, and on the count began to push
against each other's resistance. After several minutes,
with neither moving much, the man said "Fine, that's
enough. Now let's go left-handed." This time he had the
greater strength, and slowly pushed her arm to the
table. "That's good enough," he said. "Now-was this
decision to join a sudden one?"
"No. Ever since Jornoth left home-and especially after he
came back that time-I've wanted to. But he said I had to
be eighteen, and then I waited until the recruiting season
was almost over, so my father couldn't trace me and cause
trouble."
"You said you'd been on the moors-how far from town do you
live?"
"From here? Well, we're a half day's sheep drive from
Three Firs-"
"Three Firs! You came here from Three Firs today?"
"We live up the other side of Three Firs," said
Paksenarrion. "I came through there before dawn, just at
first light."
"But that's-that's twenty miles from Three Firs to here,
at least. When did you start from home?"
"Late last night, after supper." At the word, her stomach
rumbled loudly.
"You must have gone... thirty miles, I don't doubt. Did
you eat in Three Firs?"
"No, it was too early. Besides I was afraid I'd miss you
here."
"And if you had?"
"I've a few coppers. I'd have gotten some food here and
followed you."
"I'll bet you would have, too," the man said. He grinned
at her. "Give us your name, then, and let's get you on the
books so we can feed you. Any girl who'll go thirty miles
or more on foot without stopping to eat ought to make a
soldier."
She grinned back. "I'm Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter."
"Pakse-which?"
"Paksenarrion," she said slowly, and paused until he had
that down. "Dorthansdotter. Of Three Firs."
"Got it." He raised his voice slightly. "Corporal Bosk."
"Sir." One of the men-at-arms turned to look into the
tent.
"I'll need the judicar and a couple of witnesses."
"Sir." The corporal stalked off across the square.
"We have to have it all official," the man
explained. "This isn't our Duke's domain; we must prove
that we didn't take advantage of you, or force you, or
forge your signature... you can sign your name, can't
you?"
"Yes."
"Good. The Duke encourages all his troops to learn to read
and write. Now-" He broke off as a man in a long maroon
gown and two women arrived at the booth.
"Got another one before the deadline, eh, Stammel?" said
the man. The women, one in cheesemaker's apron and cap,
and the other with flour dusting her hands and arms,
looked at Paksenarrion curiously.
"This young lady wishes to join," said Stammel shortly.
The man winked at him and took out a stone cylinder with
carving on one end. "Now," Stammel continued, "if you'll
repeat after me in the presence of the judicar and these
witnesses: I, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, do desire to
join Duke Phelan's Company as a recruit and agree to serve
two years in this company after recruit training without
leave, and do further agree to obey all rules,
regulations, and commands which I may be given in that
time, fighting whomever and however my commander directs."
Paksenarrion repeated all this in a firm voice, and signed
where she was directed, in the leather-bound book. The two
women signed beside her name, and the judicar dripped wax
underneath and pressed the stone seal in firmly. The
cheesemaker patted Paksenarrion on the shoulder as she
turned away, and the judicar gave Stammel a final wink and
leer.
"Now then," said Stammel. "I'm Sergeant Stammel, as you
may have gathered. We usually leave a town at noon; all
the rest of the recruits are at The Golden Pig and have
eaten. But you need something in your stomach, and a rest
before we march. So we'll wait a bit. From here on, you're
a recruit, remember. That means you say 'yes, sir'
and 'no, sir' to any of us but other recruits, and you do
what you're told with no arguing. Clear?"
"Yes, sir," said Paksenarrion
An hour later, seated by a window, Paksenarrion looked
curiously at the other recruits lounging in the courtyard
of The Golden Pig. Only two were taller than she: a husky
youth with tousled yellow hair, and a skinny black-bearded
man whose left arm had a tattooed design on it. The
shortest was a wiry redheaded boy with an impudent nose
and a stained green velvet shirt. She spotted two other
women, sitting together on the steps. None had weapons
except a dagger for eating, but the black-bearded man wore
a sword-belt. Mostly the recruits looked like farm boys
and prentices, with a few puffy-faced men beyond her
experience. Only the men-at-arms and the recruiting
sergeant were in uniform. The others wore the clothes in
which they'd joined. She finished the sandwich in her hand
and started another; Stammel had told her to eat hearty
and take her time. She had downed four sandwiches when
Stammel came in again.
"You look better," he remarked. "Is there a short form of
that name of yours?"
Paksenarrion had been thinking about that. She never
wanted to hear her father's Pakse again. Her great-aunt,
for whom she was named, had been called Enarra, but she
didn't like that, either. She had finally decided on a
form she thought she could live with.
"Yes, sir," she said. "Just call me Paks, if you wish."
"All right, Paks-ready to march?"
"Yes, sir."
"Come on, then." Stammel led the way to the inn courtyard.
The other recruits stared as she came down the
steps. "This is Paks," he said. "She'll march in Coben's
file today, Corporal Bosk."
"Very good, sir. All right, recruits: form up." The other
recruits shuffled into four lines of five persons each,
except that the first file was one short. "Paks, you march
here." Bosk pointed to the last place in the short
file. "Now remember, at the command you all start off on
the left foot, march in step, keep even with the rank on
your right, and don't crowd the man ahead." Bosk walked
around and through the group, shifting one or another an
inch this way or that. Paksenarrion watched him curiously
until he bawled suddenly, "Eyes front, recruits!" At last
he was through fussing (as she thought to herself) and
stepped back.
"Good enough, Bosk," said Stammel. "March 'em out."
For the first time in her life, Paksenarrion heard that
most evocative of military commands as Bosk drew in a
lungful of air and shouted: "Recruits. Forward... MARCH!"
The afternoon's march was only four hours, with two short
rest-breaks, but when they halted, Paksenarrion was more
tired than she had ever been. Besides the recruits, there
were six regulars (Stammel, Bosk, and four privates) and
four mules that carried the booth and supplies. In the
course of the afternoon, they reviewed (and Paks learned)
the correct way to form up, begin marching, and turn in
column. She now knew her file number and who her file
leader was, and had learned to keep an even distance
behind the man in front. Tired as she was, she was in
better shape than one of the puffy-faced men. He groaned
and complained all afternoon, and finally fell in a faint
at the last rest-break. When cold water failed to rouse
him, two privates hoisted him over one mule's pack and
lashed him there, face down. When he came to, he begged to
walk, but Stammel left him there, groaning piteously,
until they made camp.
Paksenarrion and the next newest recruit were set to dig
the jacks trench at the camp. This was the tall yellow-
haired boy; he told her his name was Saben. He had dug the
night before, too, and knew how long to make the trench.
As they walked back into camp, the tattooed man
sneered, "Here come the ditchdiggers-look like a real
pair, don't they?"
The man who'd fainted snickered appreciatively. "It
took 'em long enough. I'd say they weren't just digging
ditches."
Paksenarrion felt her ears steam, but before she got her
mouth open, she saw Stammel, behind the others, shake his
head at her. Then her file leader, a chunky dark youth
named Coben, spoke up.