by David Scoles
All the world had become chaos and butchery. The prayers of Bishops and Priests became words of damnation. In the face of such violence and blood sport men forgot their boasts of chivalry and turned instead to vile acts of self-preservation. Horse legs were severed, backs were pierced with arrow, lance and sword. Fair combat was replaced by roving gangs of maddened soldiers turning upon each other in their fear crazed desire to survive. Now did Radu’s words come back to him: all men are mercenaries. Violence begat terror and terror begat selfishness.
King Edward watched the French host and waited for Philip’s standard to make its move that would signal that either he should flee and regroup or descend upon the French himself in a final act of desperation. Watching so many of the French cavalry decimated by his bowmen lit the fires of war in his heart and now the desire to trade blows with his own sword was overwhelming! Then Valois made his move.
King Philip could not believe what was happening.
“We are losing?” he roared in disbelief. “With numbers so weighted to our advantage you dare to suggest we fall back? Never!”
“Your Highness, your loyal chevaliers beg you to remain and keep your back to the Paris road!” cried the Bishop of Langres who was a youthful, but petty bureaucrat.
“By the sacred skull of Saint Denis and the beating hearts of my men,” Philip cried and once more drew his sword. “All who love me and desire to win the day, follow me! Cowards, be damned!” Dozens of swords left their scabbards as one and a great cheer went up from those who heard him. Philip grinned and slammed his visor down over his face. He put the spurs to his horse and bolted forward, his men quickly behind.
Edward smiled and drew his own blade. Next to him, Sir Robert Talbot blinked in surprise.
“Your Majesty? Do we retire to the Mill?”
“Draw your sword, Sir Talbot. All you men, draw your swords!” Men gasped as they saw the visor slide shut over their King’s face. Sir Talbot fumbled with his sword a moment before drawing it.
“To the left!” cried Sir Talbot and then “To the right! I want a line formed on the King! Send a message to Sir Chandos to cease fire and get a fucking messenger to the Prince! Your Majesty, give us leave to mount and follow you!” King Edward heard none of Sir Talbot’s orders to the men. He had eyes only for Philip’s charge. The French pretender was making a beeline for him across the battlefield, daring any man to fire an arrow into him. Edward marked that bravery and honored it.
“He is mine!” Edward cried and he put his spurs into his horse, which reared in surprise then tore off down the hill to the battle below. None of his men could pursue so swiftly. They had no horses! Sir Talbot roared in protest. The wind shifted and as if by some heavenly design all eyes were drawn towards the moment that would decide the battle, if not the war.
Gwilym and thousands of others watched in open mouthed wonder. A king in red and a king in blue tore the ground to pieces with each thundering hoof fall. The rain seemed no deterrent to the two men, not falling upon their armors, but rather parting around it like petals from flowers ripped away from their buds by a sudden gust of wind. Their swords were held high and to the minstrel those blades seemed to be more than just steel, the extension of two separate, yet similar wills. Both men wanted the same crown, but knew that only the stronger could hope to wear it. The stronger? Perhaps the luckier? Swords will decide this, Gwilym reasoned.
It was the arrows that were doing much to decide the fate of the Kings. Arrows made whistling noises as they hurled by King Philip, and found their marks in the men about him. With a scream and a crash Rudolph, Duke of Lorraine was pierced in several places and fell dead from his horse. Others also fell. Philip pushed on.
The order to cease fire was slow in coming, but Sir John Chandos ordered the archers to stop when he saw the King riding— alone— to meet King Philip.
“Now see them, lads! Now look upon these French as they recognize fear! It was there all along hidden within their hearts, yet no suit of armor can ever turn a blade wielded by that most ignoble of cutthroats! Behold the kings! The golden lion and the fleur de lis are entwined as never before! The field stands in indecision yet it is awash in the blood of noble and common man alike! I pray God that the blood in this unworthy body join with them if we do not take this field!”
There was an answering roar from the men about him. He had won their hearts and confidence. Now was the time to spend that coin.
“Spearmen, forward!” Sir Chandos ordered and the archers fell back between the gaps to allow the lines of spearmen to move forward, long halberds held before them. “Ulstermen, draw swords! Scions of Gwynedd, ready your knives!” he yelled to Irishmen and Welshmen respectively. “Keep the line on me. Now… rally to the King!” Sir Chandos charged forward, knowing without looking back that thousands followed behind him, their battle cry a challenge to the thunder of both sky and earth as many pairs of booted feet tore the ground in a race to the French.
King Philip had eyes only for King Edward and that King held his in turn. Theirs was a world other men could never hope to understand. The mantle of kingship. Its rules and responsibilities. Its power, its lineage and its dreams that spanned centuries all the way back to the time of the Great Flood. It was a King who stood apart even as he stood above. Philip had learned that truth the moment the crown touched his head and he held the lives of so many in the palm of his hand. Philip’s eyes narrowed with hate. Who was this man to try to take it from him? This usurper? This English moat dweller?
King Edward’s blade was forward, but now he drew it back in preparation for a swing. He had performed this maneuver dozens of times. He had killed with it dozens of times. Oh, how well King Edward remembered his first taste of death: on the banks of the River Wear, a night attack by the Scottish, blades slashing the ropes of his pavilion as he slept and the screams of the dying out there in the dark. Terror filled his young heart even as he felt enraptured by how easy and terrible war was.
Gwilym drew a breath and he saw the swords of the king’s meet. There was a crash and boom and lightning streaked across the sky causing horses to rear and panic. But the horses of the two Kings whirled and kicked sensing the aggression of their masters as the King of England and the King of France exhorted the rage of centuries each time their mighty blades met. The armies came alive again, the violence of their rulers spreading to them faster than any plague.
Then a great darkness fell upon the field. A black cloud, the biggest by far that day, obscured the sun. An unseasonably cold wind picked up and whipped the banners of England and France so fiercely the linen they were sewn from cracked like whips. A figure appeared on the hill towards where the small town of Fontaine lay.
It was an image out of a nightmare Gwilym would remember for the rest of his days. Gray armor suffused with spikes and antlers like that of a stag sprouted from a full helm that obscured the rider’s face. The rider was not alone. Several score of armored men formed a line to his left and right, black masks obscuring their features. Gwilym knew he beheld the mercenary Mamluk force. Eyes wide, Gwilym remembered the blood stained image of a horned figure smeared onto the wall of the ill-fated manor in Saint Josse. To see now that image come to life was almost too much for Gwilym’s mind to take.
Beneath his helm, King John sensed the change in the air and he cackled in triumph. His ball and chain snapped out and he felt the satisfying thunk as it struck armor. The end of the battle was nigh and the man who would deliver it had arrived. The Nachzehrer had come.
Chapter 16
Whereas King Philip had intended to wield his cavalry like a hammer, the Nachzehrer used his men like a spear aimed straight into the hearts of the two armies. He had waited until Edward and Philip had been at swords’ length before ordering the Mamluks to charge. Piercing through the French nobility from the flank they tore a hole in the charging army that opened the way directly to King Philip, just as the Nachzehrer had intended. Men died screaming in surprise, dispatched to the next wor
ld without knowing how or why. Those Turks, Egyptians and Slavs who made up the bulk of the Mamluk force wielded their weapons as they had been taught in the deserts of Araby. Quick and precise like desert raiders they slashed left and right with Sassanid longswords forged of strong seric iron from India. Their horses were lithe, and strong Feraunts from Africa that were so well trained they never bit or bucked.
The Count of Alencon saw it all happen. The Count raised his visor and stared in disbelief. His gaze fell upon his brother, the King, who was blade-locked with Edward. The Kings pushed and shoved for advantage and tried to maneuver their horses using only their legs. Neither man had yet landed a decisive blow. Alencon opened his mouth to scream a warning. The antler-helmed horror was closing in on his brother’s unprotected flank.
The English caught up to their King. Sir Talbot and Sir Chandos had both acted immediately each driven by their strong sense of duty and adherence to the codes of chivalry to defend their lord and King. Out of breath squires had brought them horses and each man mounted swiftly. No small amount of fear for their principle benefactor drove them as well. They too witnessed the charge of these mysterious warriors and assumed they were yet more mercenaries employed by France.
A Sassanid blade slashed downwards towards Sir Chandos’ right shoulder, but the knight knocked the blade aside with his shield and followed through with a straight thrust from his arming sword. He felt the satisfying jolt that told him he had pierced flesh. Withdrawing the blade brought forth the gush of blood that signaled he had hit something vital. The mercenary fell from his horse to the ground, and Sir Chandos quickly lost sight of him. There were too many horses at this focal point of the battle and mud from the rain had turned it into mire. The combatants quickly realized that staying a-horse was a hindrance rather than an advantage.
Knights and mercenaries fell in equal numbers from wounds or from off balance horses. Sir Chandos leapt from his horse and ran toward King Edward. He saw what the Count of Alencon saw at that moment, a King in danger, and hurried to reach his side. The Count reached his brother first, but it was too late.
A mighty blade arched in a downward slash towards King Philip’s right side, its razor sharp edge cutting deep into the King’s shoulder, but the blade was unable to do its intended dismemberment. With a cry of rage the Count of Alencon reached his brother’s attacker in time to crash into the warrior’s side, sending both men tumbling from their horses.
“Charles!” screamed King Philip, his face etched in pain as blood poured from his wound.
The gray-armored warrior regained his feet first and quickly stood before the still kneeling Count of Alencon. The Count, groggy from his hard fall, blearily regarded the giant warrior. Silhouetted against the cloudy sky as he was, the warrior seemed a figure out of dark legend. He raised his sword and with a great sweep the blade cut through air and then through the Count of Alencon’s neck sending the Count’s head flying away in a spray of blood. King Philip bellowed in uncontrollable rage and sorrow, his fight with King Edward forgotten.
“Kill that man!” King Philip pointed at the gray armored warrior. His hand clutched his wound, but his eyes were glued to his brother’s face frozen for eternity in a look of shock.
King Edward wore a look of shock as well. The duel had consumed him, more so than he had ever thought possible. Into Philip he had poured all of his unrealized anger, all of his frustration. Now he could only pity the man who seemed so broken staring into a dead brother’s eyes. Without looking at either Sir Chandos who was now at his side or the huffing and puffing Sir Talbot who joined them, he leveled his sword at this mysterious warrior.
“Fifty gold nobles to the one who kills that man.” Sir Chandos blinked in surprise and Sir Talbot gaped. Their English sovereign had uttered those words in French. King Philip heard and gaped at Edward in surprise. King Edward held that gaze and nodded. “I gave orders that men of lineage were to be given quarter and taken prisoner. Men of blood are given the right to a ransom.” Loud laughter cut the moment in half. It came from the gray armored warrior.
“Men of lineage. Men of blood. I shall spill that blood as I spilled his,” the warrior spat and gestured contemptuously at the dead Count of Alencon.
“You fucking lowborn bastard!” swore Sir Talbot. “What is your name, villein? You who come between men of worth?” Sir Talbot readied his blade and set his stance ready to duel this man to the death. Aye he was a big one, but by God he would see his liege’s honor upheld!
“‘O Death, where is your sting? O Hades, where is your victory?’ The ultimate sin is weakness. It is the weak who feel the sting of death. If you trust in your strength then come and meet my blade! Will its sting harm you if you be without sin? I shall never see death for such sin is beyond me, little men,” the Nachzehrer cried. Never before had the Bible’s words been uttered with more scorn.
Chapter 17
The Nachzehrer had come. Gwilym watched in horror as the warrior who had haunted his dreams ever since Saint Josse rode a night black horse down a hill and smash into and through the French knights. It was the Horned God made flesh, just as Radu had said in what seemed ages ago. That caricature drawn in blood had come to life before his eyes.
Gwilym had kept himself safe while in the company of the Prince’s knights, but now those knights were beset on all sides by the Bohemians and their mercenaries. Gwilym was once again forced to draw his saber and defend himself.
“We must aid his Highness!” Gwilym shouted to the knights while blocking a sword thrust meant for his leg. Prince Edward was breathing hard and clutching his sword with both hands. The Prince had been on the defensive for the past several minutes and was tiring rapidly.
“It is a battle of honor, minstrel,” Sir Bourchier snapped. The knight had not been faring well in his own battles and he might have been killed had not Sir Thomas Holland come to his aid. His armor was dented and his blade dulled from repeated strikes. Sir Bourchier’s patience was fraying and the appearance of the Nachzehrer had shaken his nerve. Gwilym ignored him.
“I have learned sir that honor exists only in some men and not even in all knights.” Gwilym knelt down and picked up two palm sized stones that looked as if they had fallen from a border fence. He handed one to Sir Bourchier who looked at it in confusion. “In a battle there are only winners and the dead!” Gwilym threw the stone with all his strength striking the knight to the left of King John. It struck the helmet and the knight howled in surprise. King John must have felt his knight’s surprise for he also hesitated in his attack against the Prince.
Sensing his opportunity Prince Edward’s sword struck out scoring a hit along the King’s waist. The armor absorbed most of the damage, but King John still reeled and swung his ball and chain about trying to score a counterattack against the Prince. King John’s Right drew his sword out of reflex. Sir Thomas Holland saw it as a knight interfering in an honorable battle and used his shield as a battering ram to force his way through Bohemians and mercenaries alike to clear a path to the blind king’s knight.
The knight Gwilym had struck shook his head angrily and growled. He looked and saw Sir Bourchier holding his stone. The large knight roared and in his rage forgot his duty to King John. With a mocking bow at Sir Bourchier, Gwilym darted away. Sir Bourchier blanched when he saw the large knight barreling towards him.
“Damn you, minstrel!” Sir Bourchier called after him.
Gwilym nodded in satisfaction when he looked over his shoulder to see Sir Holland and Sir Bourchier engage King John’s knights. He had effectively stolen the King’s eyes. Now it was up to Prince Edward to do the rest. It didn’t take long.
The sounds of the battle rattled in King John’s ears and he could no longer hear the shouted instructions from his Left and Right. He did not despair. All was as he had expected it to be.
“By God, but I was able to get a few strikes this day,” he shouted. He struck out blindly and then felt cold steel slide through the greaves under his right a
rmpit. The ball and chain fell from nerveless fingers and King John turned his head to the right and whispered out his last, knowing that the Prince would hear him.
“Well struck. Tell my son… picturing his face was ever my fondest dream.” King John of Bohemia fell from his horse to the ground dead. A great moan arose from the assembled Bohemians when they saw their King fall. Fate had turned again and the English surged once more driving the Bohemians back. Prince Edward leaned heavily upon his sword breathing hard and staring down at his fallen foe.
“All honor to you, King of Bohemia. From this day forward I shall inscribe ‘ich dien’ upon mine own standard in honor of your bravery.”
Daylight broke through the storm clouds above. A light shone down upon the battlefield and the winds once more kissed exhausted faces with summer. Another strange sight in the direction of the setting sun revealed itself. A lone rider sped upon his horse across the field ignoring arrow and lance alike. Gwilym narrowed his eyes to see better, then widened them in astonishment.
“Radu,” Gwilym breathed.
Chapter 18
There was no question where Radu was headed. He was like an arrow fired straight at the Nachzehrer. Any observer other than Gwilym might have wondered about the point of such a charge? The Nachzehrer and his Mamluks were clearly outnumbered and now firmly sandwiched between two opposing armies. What chance did they have? Had those observers fully understood the plans of the traitorous Sir Boeth, they would have held a different opinion.
When King Philip sagged from his horse, blood pouring from a wound that stained his shining armor bright red, his men predictably panicked. Soldiers surged forward to protect their liege but the mire prevented horse hooves from finding solid purchase. Knights fell to the ground pinned beneath their horses. Mud filled their helmets and drowned the men within. Their cries for help were lost in the cacophony of injured horses and screaming men. The chaos fed the Nachzehrer’s attack. With a roar of challenge, Sir Richard Talbot surged forward with his arming sword seeking to engage the Count of Alencon’s murderer in single combat, but the Nachzehrer had another target in mind.