Join the initiation for The King's Own

"Pinch's time," Lanks says. "Take you back up the hill, Rex?" he asks.

"My place is with The King's Own," you say.

Pinch gives you a clout in the back. "Ha!" he says.

Lanks's face is a mask, stiff behind his Pheban-style mustache. "Right. Smartly then, recruits."

Lanks walks the two of you up to the barracks. The sentries recognize him, before walking through the sign and countersign.

"Sergeant Lanks, with Recruits Pinch and Rex," he tells the barracks warden.

"Back to save us at the last minute, Lanks? Not a minute to spare, recruits. This way, sharpish. Pick up your feet, Rex, who taught you to march?"

You follow Pinch's lead, the best you can. Lanks seems to have disappeared. Not bodyguard, page, or servant beside you, only Pinch, that rascal. The barracks warden turns you over to a sergeant, who delivers the two of you to the baths and the attentions of a pair of scrubwives in smocks and aprons with their hair pulled up and back. They order each of you into a wooden wash-tub, and with rags and soap, make you presentable, joshing at each other as they work.

"These two'll make fine husbands to the regiment," the younger one says as she works on Pinch. She laughs. "This one is well armed for the battle."

Pinch stands with a little smirk as the scrubwife displays his member. To your chagrin, Pinch's masculine endowment surpasses your own.

"Fine?" the older one says as she washes you. "Eh, too pretty, especially this one. What, has the young King dispossessed some nobles, that they have to take up as soldiers?" She sharpens her voice. "Rex, boy, are you a runaway?" she addresses you. "This is no place for a young nobleman."

"No, miss," you say, trying to put on a voice closer to Lanks.

"May Heaven help you, you'll need the King's own pardon if you lie," she tells you. "Well, you're for a soldier now, and no mistake. Eh, good teeth. You hang onto them, young man. Flora, hand me the towel."

"Here, Gretch," the younger woman says, reaching it over. "Let's get these boys on their way. I need to bathe, too."

"Oh girl, did they pick you?" Gretch says.

"They did. Warden told me it's my turn, I'm in," Flora says.

"Just do as I told you, you'll be fine," Gretch says. She gives you a brisk pat-down from head to knees. "Now, step out, boy." She has you lift each foot so she can dry you off. "White tunic, there. Slippers."

You dress in the single garment and find a pair of slippers that fits.

"They called up Merrimay, too," Flora says as she dries Pinch, maybe lingering a bit on his midsection.

Gretch says, "Oh, poor girl, she wasn't to marry the regiment. Wasn't she waiting word from home? Leave us all behind?"

"Aye, she got the word, and it's no good," Flora says. "So she's thrown in with us lot."

"Pity, she's a princess or something, what?" Gretch says.

Flora shakes her head. "Not any more, seems like," she says. With a grin, she adds. "Bright side, she'll be around, finish learning me my letters."

"Oh, they use the same letters where she comes from?" Gretch says.

"I'dn'o," Flora says. "But she knows ours anyway."

Gretch opens the door and yells out the hall. "Two fresh ones!"

The young sergeant takes charge of you. Again, you do your best to ape Pinch's carriage and gait. You've had training in how to put a good face in Court, and it stands you in good stead as you follow Pinch into a room with a group of young men in the same plain slippers and smocks. Your brothers for tonight, and, you suppose, in a way, from now on. Pinch prompts you on the responses, so by the time you have to count yourself present, you're ready.

"Recruit Pinch!" he bellows out.

"Recruit Rex!" you follow with a full-throated roar.

Lanks is up by the barracks warden, no doubt swearing to your bona fides.

A busy evening, alternating demonstrations from the recruits with blessings and warnings from the sergeants, winds down to final event. You see your fellow recruits' eyes gleam as the room is cleared.

The barracks warden calls out. "Standard-bearer, come forward!"

A sturdy young man steps forth. One of the sergeants holds up a staff topped with a gilded carving of a bird rising from a nest of flames.

"Accept your standard!" the sergeant barks.

"I accept!" the standard-bearer replies, taking the staff and holding it up high.

"Behold, company!" the barracks warden calls. "Here is your standard. You are the brothers of the Phoenix Company, so named to honor the end of the Regency and the return of the King. You are the King's Own! Long live the King!"

"Long live the King!" you shout out with the rest.

"Now comes your commitment, body and soul, to the Regiment and to your brother recruits," the barracks warden says. "It is the unique tradition of The King's Own that every new company of recruits is matched, the company all together, with a company of wives held in common. Each woman has pledged herself to The King's Own as you have pledged yourself. And tonight you should be married, each to all, and all to each, and everyone to the regiment. Your duty, soldiers, your duty, is to love and care for your wives all together. As your fellow soldiers are your brothers, so is every wife your own dear family. This is your promise to The King's Own!"

"YES, SIR!" the soldiers reply.

The barracks warden orders, "Sergeant, have the Phoenix Company make ready."

"Soldiers, form up in a circle!", the sergeant barks.

"Stand ready to meet your wives," the barracks warden orders.

"Silence in the ranks, hands at your sides!" the sergeant orders.

The door at the back of the assembly room opens. Walking in, clad in white slippers and simple, clean white smocks are the women who have pledged themselves to be the wives of the regiment's newest recruits, the Phoenix Company. You recognize Flora, her ginger-gold hair braided up and twined with ribbon. Beside her walks a woman, tall and fine-featured, with pale golden hair gathered in a complex knot. From her face, she seems sad and resigned, but walks unbowed. A fresh pink scar marks her forehead above one brow. Was this the princess Flora had mentioned?

"Greet each other with your names as you pass!" the sergeant orders.

There's a murmur of voices, masculine and feminine, as the women circle round inside the ring of male recruits. "Pansy", "Tess", "Jenny", "Nell" and "Peg" go by, and you answer each with "Rex" as she passes. The women seem a bit older than their husbands-to-be, showing the signs of work and wear in their hands and faces. But not much older, you allow. "Flooo-ra", the scrubwoman says, pausing an extra beat in front of Pinch, and then repeating herself in front of you. "Flora," she says, to which you reply "Rex."

The tall blonde with the fresh scar looks into your eyes.

"Merrimay," she says.

You're lost in the blue depths of her eyes. You clear your throat. "Rex."

Another long moment is broken by Flora tugging at Merrimay's elbow.

"C'mon, Merry," Flora insists.

The line of women passes along in front of you, name for name, of varying face, figure, voice, and mood, till you face an olive-skinned, black-haired woman with dark eyes. Her limbs are tightly muscled, but her left arm ends at the elbow in a cleanly doctored scar. White traceries, old wound scars, mark her right arm. One ear is notched. Yet she is beautiful, with her strength and scars.

"Phaedra," she says, with a lilting accent.

"Rex. Were you a soldier?"

"Amazon," she says, and passes on.

After each recruit of the Phoenix Company has greeted each woman pledged as a company wife, the barracks warden calls up the next order of business.

"Now, recruits!" he calls out. "It is a serious thing to be the husband of your company's wives. It is no drunken party for dissipated nobles, but a matter of discipline. And to mark this, you must choose a woman as Mistress of Quarters. It is to her that you must apply for any matter regarding your wives, and it is to her you must answer for any breach of faith. She is their commander, as your company sergeant is yours. She is YOUR commander, in quarters, and you will obey her. The women have chosen three candidates that they would answer to. It is now yours to choose among them. Stand forth in honor, now. Flora. Phaedra. Merrimay. Now, speak for one another."

Flora tilts her chin up and waits.

Phaedra says, with her lilt, "Flora has been with the regiment since she was a girl, and her mother was a company wife of Falcon Company. She knows everyone and how to get things done. She made me welcome, a prisoner from far away."

Merrimay speaks fluently, but with an accent you don't recognize, saying, "Flora is keen of wit, good-hearted and mirthful. She made me laugh when I had done nothing but cry for weeks upon end. Her advice has made my hardships easier, and her gentle wisdom has helped me decide to pledge myself to The King's Own."

Merrimay bows her head.

Flora clears her throat and speaks. "Merrimay is a woman of grace and learning. She can doctor wounds and hearts too. I've heard her talking to the girls when they're unhappy, and like as not, they're better for it, even when they don't listen to me. We all, all of us listen to Merry. She can be gentle and she can be firm. She'll be a fine Mistress of Quarters."

Phaedra says, "Merrimay is wise and learned. She helped to ease my pains and quiet my fearful dreams. I am glad she is joining with us."

Phaedra takes a deep breath and stands ready.

Flora speaks up. "Phaedra won't stand for nonsense. There'll be peace in quarters because she commands respect. You fellows, don't try her, you're not her equal."

Merrimay speaks. "Phaedra is a peacemaker, with an unbreakable will. She will stand up to the regiment itself for fairness and justice. No one will ill-serve the Phoenix Company with Phaedra as Mistress of Quarters."

Each recruit is given a pebble to drop into a pot, one for each candidate. As you see the men file past the pots, the stones rattling in, you feel the count may be close. You're last to choose. Your stone could well decide the Mistress of Quarters.