I remained in France without any official post, my presence explained away to the public as a sort of Grand Tour—the traditional journey taken by young noblemen to broaden their horizons. Aside from the occasional social gathering or the sightseeing tours arranged by Louis, my schedule was remarkably open, which proved fortunate, as I had much to ponder.

“Mmm…”

“It seems we’re still struggling to grasp the heart of the matter,” Oitotan remarked.

Despite our best efforts, we had quickly reached a limit. Although Oitotan and I were quite adaptable, neither of us was European, and that was proving to be a critical handicap. It wasn’t a matter of racial prejudice—we were of noble status, and the modern concept of “race” had yet to truly coalesce—but rather a simple, devastating lack of local knowledge.

No matter how accustomed we became to European life, we were still outsiders. Everything we learned felt superficial compared to the lived experience of the locals. Eleanor had returned to the Continental Covenant after King Henry IV’s recovery, leaving only Oitotan and me as high-ranking representatives. This lack of deep insight was a serious obstacle to monitoring the war and formulating a response.

We needed help.

“And so, I’ve called for you. I’m sorry to drag you here, Walter.”

“Not at all, Your Highness. It is a profound pleasure to see you again after all this time.”

As it happened, the Covenant needed to discuss trade licenses with the new King of France, providing the perfect pretext for Walter Raleigh to visit. After concluding several agreements with Louis XIII, he came directly to my estate.

Raleigh stood before a table covered in maps, his eyes scanning them one by one. In the years since we had last met, his eyebrows had turned from grey to a stark, snowy white, and deep lines were etched into his gaunt face.

Walter had grown old. I had known he was aging before I left, but the reality of it struck me now with a sudden, unbidden pang of melancholy. When he turned to look at me, I hurriedly averted my eyes, pretending to be occupied with something else. He tilted his head at my behavior but didn’t press the issue.

“It is a thought very much like you, Your Highness,” Raleigh said.

“Which thought is that?”

“The desire to bring a swift end to a senseless war and minimize the loss of life.”

Even in his seventies, Raleigh couldn’t seem to kick his tobacco habit. He pulled a pipe from his pocket and began packing it with leaves. Oitotan offered him a light, and soon white clouds of smoke began to gather against the high ceiling of the drawing room.

“It is a beautiful sentiment,” Raleigh continued, puffing on his pipe. “One befitting a person of your character. However, even I cannot see a simple solution. A way to end a war quickly… hmmm.”

I let out a sigh. It was as I had feared. The conflict was a tangled web of religious fervor, political ambition, and competing interests, involving more than a dozen sovereign states. I was about to thank him for his time, resigned to the idea of a long stalemate, when he spoke again.

“However, I do know where the greatest suffering originates.”

“Oh?”

Raleigh coughed briefly, exhaling a plume of smoke. “The mercenaries.”

“The mercenaries?” I repeated.

“Indeed. All armies are prone to excess, but mercenaries are far worse. They have no ties to the land or the people. They wander for years, following the scent of coin, and when the treasuries run dry, they are often granted the ‘right to loot’ in lieu of wages.”

“The right to loot?” I gasped.

The concept was grotesque, yet it took me a moment to shake off my modern sensibilities. In this era, the property of the loser belonged to the victor. If a monarch couldn’t pay his soldiers, allowing them to sack a wealthy city was a form of direct taxation—a payment in blood and plunder.

Seeing my confusion, Raleigh offered a small, cynical smile. “Think of it, Your Highness. How many monarchs are truly wealthy enough to sustain a long war? If they can promise the plunder of a rich city, it more than makes up for missing wages. That is the way of the world. Even in the Scriptures, when the Israelites entered Canaan—”

“No, I understand,” I interrupted, nodding quickly before he could launch into a biblical tangent. Oitotan and Raleigh exchanged a puzzled look, but I pressed on. “So, if we could stop the mercenaries from acting, or at least prevent the looting, the situation would improve significantly.”

“Well… theoretically, yes,” Raleigh said, his tone suggesting he thought such a thing was impossible.

But I disagreed. “Thank you, Walter. You’ve given me a magnificent idea.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Sire.”

“I have one more favor to ask. Would you be willing?”

“A favor?”

“Yes.” I thought for a moment, then nodded firmly. “I need you to bring certain people from the Covenant to me. And one more thing.”

“Whatever you command, Your Highness.”

“Excellent.” I walked over to the window and threw it open, letting the cool air clear the room of tobacco smoke. “Give me the names of the most notoriously ruthless mercenary captains in Europe.”

***

“To Ernst von Mansfeld. Return immediately. Spanish forces are marching north.”

Mansfeld read the message and let out a weary sigh, shaking his head. It was from Carlo Emanuele, Duke of Savoy. The Spanish were reportedly threatening the Duke’s home territories, and he was calling for his soldiers.

I’m not sure I should go, Mansfeld thought.

In another life, Ernst von Mansfeld would become legendary for his “flexible” loyalties—once halting his army in the middle of a campaign to take a bribe from the Emperor and retreat. He had started his career in Spanish service before switching to the Duke of Savoy, who was then staunchly anti-Spanish, simply because the pay was better. He knew nothing of loyalty.

What mattered to him was that here, in Bohemia, he was being hailed as a Protestant hero. He had been the primary architect of the victory over Count Tilly at White Mountain. He was the one who had harried the retreating enemy and secured a string of Imperial cities.

He was being treated like a savior, acting as a de facto dictator in the occupied territories and reaping immense profits. Why bother with a “sovereign” in the south? Besides, the risk and cost of marching his army across half the continent was a burden no one else would share. It was far better to stay exactly where he was.

However…

Frederick of the Palatinate is running out of gold.

Frederick might have kept his crown thanks to Mansfeld, but he had no way to pay him. It was an inevitable consequence of fighting a total war against the Empire, but that was of no concern to Mansfeld. He served only one master, and if that master failed him, he would follow no one.

Gold. Without gold, there was no loyalty. Loyalty existed only where the yellow metal shone. Whether it was the Habsburgs, Savoy, or the Palatinate mattered not to a man who, as a bastard, had no family honor to uphold.

This “flexibility” had left him deep in thought for days.

Perhaps it’s time for a thorough looting, he mused.

Of course, as a “Protestant hero,” he couldn’t just sack the local villages. But the Imperial-leaning cities he had captured in Bohemia and Moravia? That was another story. He could replenish his supplies and line his pockets, and the Protestants would likely cheer him for “cleansing the land of Satan’s spawn.”

He was about to set his plan in motion when an aide rushed into his tent.

“Commander! There is a merchant outside—a very wealthy-looking one—who insists on speaking with you.”

“A merchant?”

“Yes, Sire. An Englishman, by the sound of his accent.”

It was common practice for merchants to follow mercenary companies, providing supplies for a tidy profit. But to demand a private audience with the commander? And an Englishman, here in the heart of Bohemia?

Curious, Mansfeld stepped into his inner sanctum. The man’s greeting confirmed the aide’s report.

“Greetings, Commander. It is a profound honor to meet the great hero of Bohemia. May the Lord’s blessings be upon you always.”

“What do you want?” Mansfeld grunted.

“What else would a merchant want with a man of your stature but to talk business?”

Mansfeld felt a small spark of pride at the man’s deference, but it was fleeting. He gave a dismissive wave. “My aides should have told you—we have supplies enough.”

“I’m sure you do,” the merchant replied smoothly. “But I haven’t come to sell you grain or wool. I’ve come to trade in something far more valuable.”

“More valuable?” Mansfeld’s suspicion flared. He expected the man to pull out a bag of jewels or some other frippery. He sat down, crossing his legs and folding his arms. “Speak then, Englishman. What is this ‘valuable’ commodity?”

“Life.”

A heavy silence fell over the tent. Before Mansfeld could find his voice, the merchant leaned in, his eyes locking onto the commander’s.

“First, I am not English. I ask that you keep that a secret.”

Mansfeld blinked. The man spoke with a perfect English accent. But the merchant didn’t stop.

“And as I said, I have come to trade in lives. Not to sell them to you, but to buy them from you.”

Mansfeld had no idea what the man was talking about, yet he felt a strange, magnetic charisma emanating from the stranger.

“I understand the Duke of Savoy sent you sixty thousand Imperial Florins for your campaign,” the merchant said.

“He did. A king’s ransom,” Mansfeld replied.

“Mmm…”

The merchant reached into a heavy pouch at his belt and pulled something out. The moment Mansfeld saw it, he believed the man was not English.

The coin was made of a material that seemed to defy the world—one side a stark, brilliant white, the other a deep, obsidian black. As the merchant flipped it toward him, Mansfeld caught it and recognized it instantly.

An Othello coin. The currency of the New World Emperor.

Before he could speak, the merchant began pulling handfuls of the coins from his pouch, stacking them on the table.

“One generally reckons ten Livres to be worth about six Imperial Florins,” the merchant said.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The Othello coins, which seemed to be magnetized, clicked together into perfect towers. Mansfeld, a man who could count gold in his sleep, felt his breath hitch.

Forty towers, each containing twenty-five Othello coins.

One thousand Othello coins. One hundred thousand Livres.

Sixty thousand Imperial Florins.

Mansfeld’s eyes widened at the sum. When he looked up, the merchant was already sweeping the coins back into his pouch. This man was from the New World.

“Why… why are you here?” Mansfeld stammered.

“I told you. I’ve come to buy lives. Consider this a down payment. If you save more lives, there will be more gold. The one I serve is far wealthier than any ‘Duke’ of Savoy.”

The merchant paused, a small smile playing on his lips. “Ah, and if you have no use for Othello coins, don’t worry. There is a wagon outside…”

Before the merchant could finish, Mansfeld was out of the tent. He threw back the canvas covering of the wagon and pried open a crate.

“Good… god,” he whispered.

The crate was filled to the brim with gleaming silver coins—Dutch Florins.

“Now,” the merchant said, approaching the wide-eyed commander, “are you interested in a trade? You have the largest force of any captain we’ve contacted, which is why we’re being so… forthcoming.”

Mansfeld struggled to find his breath. The merchant stepped closer and closed the lid of the crate with a heavy thud. To Mansfeld, it sounded like the beating of his own heart.

“Who… who do I have to kill?” he asked, his voice trembling.

The merchant smiled. “No one. You just have to keep them alive.”

“What?”

Mansfeld froze in confusion. The merchant leaned in and whispered, “Have you ever considered running a mercenary company without the looting and the massacres?”

The thought had never crossed Mansfeld’s mind. Men risked their lives for gold, and if they couldn’t have their “fun” and their plunder, how was he supposed to control them? How was he supposed to survive?

And yet… looking at the crates of silver, he suddenly felt it was a question worth considering.