by David Scoles
“Or protect it. Take what men you need, but in my name protect the people,” the Prince said with finality. The three knights bowed and left. Gwilym shook his head, torn apart with indecision.
That was no ignoble act or unreasonable request. Nor was it what I would have expected either from a traitor. Does my mind see shadows behind these good intentions or is this Prince the hope for a better world I want him to be?
Prince Edward saw Gwilym staring at him and he smiled.
“You have the look of someone who ponders more than rhyming words and pretty faces Dafydd. Come. Talk with me awhile before the time comes you must witness a son’s hand reach for a father’s dream.” Gwilym swallowed.
“I have been thinking as to your question, your Highness. ‘What is civilization,’ you ask? Riding through this country brought many unexpected things to my eyes.” Gwilym frowned and glanced away from the Prince. “I do not know if I should do it again, even if it invited your displeasure or that of His Highness to disobey your orders, yet I would say this,” he added quickly. “It showed me that people, no matter where they are from, want of home and desire for the security of Christian treatment. They leave home because they must serve their Lord or because their homes may be in danger. Fighting for it holds more meaning to them than all the gold nobles in England.” Prince Edward’s eyes widened and Gwilym’s face grew red. “Civilization is the place we all want to return to, your Highness, no matter how far away it may be or what challenges stand in our way when we must put our boots to the road.”
A horn heralded the approach of an army. Gwilym looked towards the mass of armored men lining up opposite the Black Prince’s knights. The scouts had reported the French were mounted, but these men chose to fight afoot like the English. Their style of armors differed from the French as well. Many had helms that sported exaggerated nose guards, spiked pauldrons and kite shields that were vastly larger than the standard English heater shields.
“Bohemians, my Prince,” said Warwick. The old knight’s brow furrowed. “This will be a bloody fight. These men fought like demons during the Italian campaigns, I heard.”
“Aye, but they lost that fight, my Lord,” Sir Cobham the Elder said with a grin.
“Then they shall lose here as well.” Prince Edward drew his sword and strode towards his men who were drawing weapons or kneeling in silent prayer.
Gwilym followed closely behind until the Prince stood at the head of his army. Warwick and Cobham exchanged nervous glances. Would their Prince lead from the front as his father often had? The Prince began to speak, his words carrying easily. Such was the respect the men held for their young Prince that every man strained to hear.
“There are no words to persuade you,” the Prince began. “No words to lighten the burden of serving your liege or laying down your lives in a land not your own!” Warwick swallowed a lump in his throat and even Gwilym wondered what the Prince was doing being so blunt to men already nervous. The men listening looked at each other and then back to the Prince who waited patiently for the confused muttering to end. When it did, he smiled sadly and continued. “All that I can do as your Prince and as my father’s heir is to allow my actions to speak for me. When next I turn, all you shall see is my receding back! N’er shall you see my face lit with life again. I leave that decision in the hands of almighty God! I shall stride forward with Saint George to my left and the Holy Spirit upon my right and the loyal men of England, Wales and Ireland following apace.”
Gwilym could see the effect the Prince’s words had upon the men. Eyes alight they started to cheer with each oath their Prince swore. Their Prince. Gwilym even saw some of the mercenaries caught up in the moment cheered as well. He is the future. How could I ever have doubted it?
“And so I turn! I raise my sword for our sovereign King Edward and I trust men of courage to follow me and never fear death, for death only ever dares to come to those who embrace defeat!” With a great cry the mass surged forward with Prince Edward at its spearhead. The Bohemians stared in amazement at the sudden charge and the black armored warrior leading them.
Gwilym was swept up in the mob. Rather than fight the current and be trampled he followed in Prince Edward’s wake. Gwilym risked a glance behind hoping he could see Warwick or Cobham, but he could see neither amongst the mob, nor could he see a way he might deviate from his path and find sanctuary. He was now a part of the Battle of Crecy whether he liked it or not.
The Prince’s army and the Bohemians came together in a great crash of arms. Yells of triumph mingled with the sounds of those who received wounds. A great spray of blood spurt into the air and rained down in a fine red mist. Gwilym refused to look at the ground and witness those torn into bits of meat.
The Prince was not one of these, thank God. He fought valiantly at the fore, his sword rose and fell to drive back attackers as he aided the men to each side. Gwilym could not readily identify who these knights were, but they seemed determined to protect his Highness.
A yell to Gwilym’s right alerted him before a sword would have found his neck. What a tempting target he made! He wore no armor and carried no shield, but Gwilym drew his saber and brought it slashing from left to right across the Bohemian’s face. The slash opened up a cut on the soldier’s cheek and the finely wrought saber even took a large chip off the helm’s nose guard along with part of the man’s nose. The man screamed and stumbled away, but Gwilym did not pursue. He kept to the Prince’s back determined to be a shield for him if necessary.
Running away was no longer an option. The armies had both lost their cohesion entrapping Gwilym within the epicenter. He felt like one of those rats that the dogs around the manor would corner in the barn and take turns tearing at. He couldn’t hear himself think for the cacophony of screams, swearing and steel hitting steel all around him.
The Prince moved right in the direction of… what exactly? The two knights to the left and right of Prince Edward lead the Prince away from the vanguard. Their direction was the right flank, a stone’s throw from Crecy village. Gwilym followed in their wake, wondering what was amiss.
The Bohemians were stunned by the ferocity of the attack and were forced back by a highly motivated enemy. Had the Prince decided he’d done enough and now looked to remove himself from danger? Then Gwilym happened to catch a glance at the tabard of one of the knights and espied a three star sable. It was part of the heraldry of the Cobhams and only two men would have been wearing that on their surcoat and one of them was most certainly towards the rear of the army with Earl Warwick.
Gwilym slashed at the left arm of a spear wielding mercenary. Again the saber did not let him down as the blade bit down through flesh and thence into bone. Gwilym was by no means a decent swordsman, but the saber seemed to come alive in his hand inflicting wounds, parrying killing blows and allowing him the distance between foes he needed to utilize his natural quickness to escape combat and follow Prince Edward. Sir Cobham the Younger and a man who Gwilym suspected was Sir Walter Reed, made their way swiftly towards Crecy. The sinking feeling in his stomach warned him that Prince Edward was being led from one danger into something far worse.
“The Prince!” Gwilym shouted, hoping to rally more men to follow him. “The Prince! The Prince!” A Cornishman and two Welsh spearmen broke off from the fighting and followed alongside the minstrel. Gwilym spoke to the Welshman in their native tongue.
“Mae'r Tywysog mewn perygl! (The Prince is in danger!).”
“Aye , mae eu yn frwydr (Aye, there is a battle going on),” one of the Welshman said grinning through broken teeth.
“Cachu bant ti cachu mes! (Fuck off, you sheep shagger).” The other Welshman, this one with a thick beard, said with a scowl. “Pay no attention to this one, Master Dafydd, though they ill use the title ‘Prince of Wales.’ We men of Powys still remember Llywelyn ap Gruffydd as the last true Prince of Wales!”
“Harumph!” interrupted Broken Teeth. All three, including Gwilym, crossed themselves for the memo
ry of that ill-fated Prince.
“Yet I cannot deny that lad has earned our respect a hundred times over!” Thick Beard said thumping his spear to his armored chest.
“What of you?” Gwilym asked the Cornishman.
“I am with you, though I know little of Princes of this or that. They all have heavy purses and gratitude, aye?” Gwilym shared in their laughter and felt his courage bolstered.
Gwilym and his small cohort of men were not the only ones focused upon Prince Edward. The Prince’s black armor was distinctive and thoughts of a Princely ransom occupied more than one Bohemian’s mind. The Prince, flanked by his two knights, shifted the battle like a lodestone. Where he went, both attackers and defenders followed.
Men crashed over the border stones that marked the boundary of Crecy village. Arrows fell dangerously close to homes and both armies surged over fallen comrades like waves over sand. Screams of terrified townsfolk blended with the shouts of the soldiers. Prince Edward was led, or perhaps goaded, towards the center of the village. Gwilym urged his new companions to move faster. More arrows fell and he narrowly danced out of the way of the missiles as he took temporary cover behind a wattle and daub hut.
Smoke wreathed the chimneys of the peasant town. Livestock bayed and cooed within penfolds and barns. It had an earthy smell that reminded Gwilym of home. The English had told the townsfolk not to leave their homes and all had apparently obeyed, although now it seemed evacuation would have been the wiser course. Gwilym thought the town the most cosmopolitan he had seen since leaving the coast, but then it wasn’t burned to the ground and littered with corpses yet.
The Prince, Sir Cobham the Younger and Sir Walter Reed had all stopped near dead center of the town and it looked as if Prince Edward was engaged in an angry discussion with his two knights. Gwilym, the Cornishman whose name was Arthek and the two Welshmen Gerwyn and his cousin Madog could hear the conversation.
“Sirs, to leave the battle so swiftly is unthinkable! You claim my life is in imminent danger, but should my father get wind I am not in command of my men it most certainly shall be! Now speak plainly! Why have you forced the fight into Crecy and placed in danger so many innocents? I shall not be forced to turn my back upon glory!”
“The reason is here.” From behind a hut emerged a knight Gwilym recognized. The sight of this knight should have reassured Gwilym that all was well, but instead his heart was filled with trepidation. The fighting between the Bohemians and the English had divided the village in half, but the center where the Prince, the knights, Gwilym and the rest were had become an eye in the storm.
“Sir Boeth, you do us a disservice. Why are you not with your lord, Northampton?” Sir Boeth ignored the Prince and continued to walk towards the Prince. Sir Cobham and Sir Reed both backed away. Gwilym read the mood instantly. He broke from his cover, and ran toward Prince Edward. The three other men followed on his heels.
“Prince Edward, ware! You are betrayed!” Sir Boeth’s head whipped around as did the two traitorous knights. The knights’ visors were raised. The look on Sir Reed’s face was murderous, but the younger Sir Cobham was pale and sweating. Sir Boeth wore no helm and instead subjected them all to his angry grimace that was like a snarling gargoyle.
“Kill them all! The Prince is mine!” Sir Boeth drew his sword and advanced on Prince Edward. Sir Reed and Sir Cobham drew their own blades and moved towards Gwilym. Betrayal it seemed was about to become murder. The situation became even worse when men swaddled in black cloaks emerged from alleys on all sides and converged upon them.
“My dear men, forgive me, for I have led us all to our deaths,” Gwilym said voice quivering. The men’s response was not at all what Gwilym was expecting.
“Nhw bastardiaid kill! (Kill them bastards!)” Madog rushed forward aiming his spear at one of the black cloaked men who had been sneaking up behind them. His cousin Gerwyn sighed and shot Gwilym an apologetic look.
“I’ll try not to let him get too carried away, my lord, aye?” He ran off to join his cousin in spearing the dark-cloaked fish.
In one swift motion Arthek drew his bow and set arrow to string. A moment later an arrow jutted from the neck of another black cloaked warrior. The Cornishman said nothing. He preferred to let his arrows do the talking for him. Gwilym groaned and drew his saber. Sir Walter Reed looked as eager to kill him as if he were going to a King’s feast. Sir Cobham followed reluctantly in his wake.
“Bloody Turncoats!” Gwilym yelled defiantly. He hoped his final words would be remembered for their courageousness regardless of their lack of poetic device. Then God intervened directly in his life again by making things worse. The stalemate between the Bohemians and English suddenly broke and the center of Crecy village was no longer the eye of the storm. It was the storm as hundreds of howling men flooded the street like blood let from a wound.
Chapter 8
If God was still deciding which side to take at Crecy, he chose to preface his decision with a downpour. While the Black Prince and Dafydd ap Gwilym still spoke of other things before the battle began, the sky thundered above. A gentle drizzle that had sprinkled the English, French and others just enough to moisten beards and sodden standards started to hammer upon helmets and turn the ground of Crecy into a muddy morass. Sir Chandos knew he had to act quickly.
“Have the archers unstring their bows, quickly now!” the knight shouted at a sergeant who scrambled to carry out his order. A wet bowstring was a useless bowstring, he knew. A bow was just a cumbersome stick if it could not draw its full length. His plan, nay, it was His Majesty’s plan now, he thought wryly, was that each archer be able to pull his bow its full length and fire as many as six arrows a minute. Sir Chandos cast an eye towards the sky and watched the clouds ripple as if stirred by a giant’s hand.
“May God and Saint Sebastian, Patron Saint of Archers grant each arrow fly true!” Sir Chandos grinned. Young Gwilym had offered up that last bit of knowledge at his own curious behest. His smile became a worried frown. He also prayed the minstrel, in his unassuming way, would be the extra bit of protection his dear friend would need.
At that moment, an entire detachment of tired and harried Genoan crossbowmen numbering roughly six thousand converged upon the battlefield. Their leader, one Ottone Doria, wasn’t prepared for the sudden turn of weather, but didn’t order his men to stop their marching. Close behind upon powerful chargers rode Sir Moine and Sir Miles, the Lord of Noyers, whom Doria suspected had been ordered by the King to ‘encourage’ the Genoans to trade arrows with the English to ‘soften’ them up.
Doria had long since counted the coins this expedition was costing him versus how much King Philip had paid them and it was quickly reaching a prearranged moment when it would no longer be profitable to serve the King of France. For Ottone Doria being a mercenary was like entering the jousts: a constant balance between risk and reward. One might size up a potential opponent and feel the fight winnable, or they might not and save themselves the injury and embarrassment by withdrawing.
“There is no money in winning crowns, but by the head of the Baptist we will scour this battlefield clean of every coin purse, hollow boot sole and every fucking cockhole of these English to get Genoa’s due!” Ottone Doria yelled to the men near him. Their answering cry heartened him greatly even as the rain poured down and dampened the bowstrings of their crossbows.
It was another hour before the Genoans and English finally looked each other in the eye and it was an intimate meeting that lasted less than five minutes. The rain hadn’t softened its offense, yet the Welsh archers prepared for theirs regardless. As one, each battle army of archers including those under the Black Prince, King Edward and Northampton strung their bows and fitted shafts to dry strings and awaited their orders to fire that would come from Sir John Chandos.
They were within English bow distance, but Ottone Doria knew the initiative was his.
“Pavise men forward!” he ordered. The shield men would be needed when the bow men need
ed to reload. Doria took pride in the fact that his men could reload and fire three shots a minute with an accuracy the English longbow could never hope to achieve.
“Take your knee, steady your aim and fire at will!” The Genoan crossbowmen formed a solid line behind a wall of shields, called a pavise, that were held firmly upright on the ground by a row of lads that were all between the ages of ten and sixteen. The Genoans fixed their bolts and let fly.
Chapter 9
Sir John Chandos felt his mouth go dry as he watched the flight of thousands of crossbow bolts sail towards the English lines. Then his jaw dropped as the vast majority of them fell short!
“By God the Father, Son and Holy Ghost their strings are wet! Their fucking strings are wet! Fire lads! Fire! Fire! Fire!” The knight need not have bothered, the Welsh were too well trained and the English too desperate to finally strike a blow against their ancient enemy to not seize upon such an opportunity.
Ottone Doria witnessed scores of bolts thud uselessly into the muddy earth and in the same moment knew he was in trouble. He recognized his simple mistake barely a moment later as he took cover behind a pavise even as a man next to him fell backward with a cry, his skull pierced by an arrow.
“Take cover!” he shouted, but in that first volley hundreds had already fallen screaming to the ground clutching at English ash wood impaled through their skin. Far too many others had fallen and made no move or sound at all. “Replace your strings! Hurry! Every man who might live to see the morrow hold tight to the line.” Doria sent his orders crisply and quickly. He was the veteran of many battles, but even he was surprised at the power and accuracy of those longbows. Several pavise had been beaten into shapeless metal already. They needed the French to charge those English lines. If only they could get off a proper volley! The crossbow was more than a match for a simple longbow.
The English longbows kept up their steady barrage and the Genoans took losses with each volley. Bolts that flew from the Genoese did find targets, but those losses were far fewer than Sir Chandos had expected in the first skirmish.