The regular army no longer lacked armor. Even non-combat personnel such as clerks and shamans were issued a full set of equipment:
A short sword
A round shield
A helmet
A standard black cloth surcoat over armor
In addition, Frode received the standard personal kit assigned to every soldier:
A leather backpack, One belted outer tunic and two sets of undergarments, Two pairs of heavy hobnailed sandals, Personal mess kit and water flask, Needle and thread for mending clothes and footwear, Soap and bandages, A whetstone, A woolen cloak, useful against rain and as a blanket at night
"That's everything. Sign here."
The regimental quartermaster yawned as he handed over a form, offering reassurance to the baby-faced newcomer.
"Don't worry. Clerks and shamans aren't required to fight. During marches, you can store your gear in the company's supply wagon."
A Clerk's Duties
Back at company headquarters, Captain Ingvarren tossed Frode a roster.
"My literacy isn't great. Some of the entries are wrong. Re-register everyone."
"Yes, sir!"
The captain flinched at the enthusiastic shout.
"Lower your voice. I'm not deaf."
A full infantry regiment consisted of six spear companies and three archery companies. Frode's Second Company was made up of spearmen—mostly Vikings, with a few Highlanders and northern Angles mixed in.
Seated behind a long table, quill in hand, Frode verified each soldier's information. Most had no surnames. To distinguish identical names, he added nicknames or places of origin as prefixes.
Once finished, several veterans surrounded him, asking for help writing letters home—an expected part of a clerk's duties.
"Hey, kid, your handwriting's beautiful. Way better than the captain's scratches."
"Yeah! Last time he read a letter for me, he didn't know half the words. Nearly scared me to death guessing what it said."
Since the previous June, Britannia had been building post offices and relay stations on a large scale. Post offices, temples, and hospitals had become standard landmarks in directly ruled towns. Noble territories had fewer, but they were being built there as well.
As a military benefit, regular soldiers were allowed to send one letter home each month through the royal postal system.
Civilians had to pay postage at local post offices, where envelopes were stamped with a seal. Vig had once considered introducing postage stamps but postponed the idea for practical reasons.
Life in the Ranks
After a long day, Frode finally reached supper. As a headquarters clerk, his rations were relatively good—fried fish and grilled sausages.
He fetched water from the well, washed briefly, then crawled into his tent. Being exempt from night sentry duty spared him the harshest tasks endured by common soldiers.
Before dawn the next morning, a whistle jolted him awake.
He dressed quickly and helped dismantle tents, loading them into the company's supply wagon.
Afterward, he gnawed on hardtack, grumbling about why such miserable food had been chosen as army rations. He washed it down with water to avoid choking.
When he finished, the central camp bell rang—fifteen minutes to departure.
Frode assisted Captain Ingvarren in inventory checks, then joined the formation, waiting silently.
"Soldiers! The expedition begins. Our objective is to suppress the Irish rebellion. His Majesty commands in person—"
Company officers delivered speeches. Ingvarren's was by the book, largely memorized from an Army Academy training template. It stirred little enthusiasm.
Soon the military band struck up a lively march. The regiment filed out in four columns.
Citizens lined the streets. Adults whispered about the war's consequences. Children darted toward the ranks and were promptly lifted aside by officers.
Near the northern gate, the walls were crowded with Royal Guards and palace servants. The royal family and cabinet members had come to see them off.
Suddenly Frode spotted his younger brother Frey pointing at his column and shouting excitedly.
Frode shot him a glare—then marched beyond the gates into open country.
Toward Liverpool
The road from Londinium to Liverpool was secure. Supplies could be gathered along the way. Morale remained relaxed, and Frode gradually settled into his new identity as "company clerk."
At Liverpool, a massive fleet awaited—tasked with transporting over ten thousand soldiers and five thousand animals (warhorses and draft horses) to Dublin.
"Come with me to regimental headquarters."
Ingvarren tapped Frode's shoulder. Inside the headquarters tent, more than forty officers crowded together, the air stifling.
Once all were present, Colonel Breken cleared his throat.
"We sail in two days. From embarkation to landing, we follow naval command."
He yielded the floor to a naval officer.
The man wore a curious black tricorne hat and a black double-breasted coat with brass buttons. Golden oak leaves and two bars were embroidered on his collar. Beneath it he wore a white vest and trousers, with a light command sword at his waist.
Ignoring the envious stares, he read from a document, assigning ships to each company.
Second Company would board two cogs:
Adventure Charlie
Swift Billy
Frode carefully noted the ship names and hull numbers, listening intently to every instruction.
Envy of the Navy
After the meeting, Ingvarren muttered as they walked back.
"I should've transferred to the navy last year. Faster promotions, better pay—and those uniforms His Majesty personally designed. Too late now."
Truthfully, army officer armor was also well designed: brass spikes atop helmets with colored plumes, embroidered surcoats, reinforced arm guards. Yet compared to the navy's polished appearance, the difference was stark.
Annoyed by the complaints, Frode blurted out, "The navy's forming marine battalions for coastal warfare. You still have a chance."
"How do you know that?"
Frode quickly improvised. "Overheard instructors chatting at the academy. Seems credible."
Ingvarren hesitated, tempted—then sighed again.
"I don't have connections. If I apply blindly, my superiors will brush me off. Forget it. I'll stay in the army and hope to earn a knighthood before retirement."
Frode said nothing more.
For now, he was just another clerk in the ranks—marching toward war.
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