Elizabeth Moon - Sheepfarmer's Dauther

“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.”