The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood - Volume 2

by Shane KP O'Neill

  From there Marc Sith and Frundsberg pushed on against the French artillery positions. They killed all those defending the cannon. With that done they had their men turn the many cannon over into the mud.

  Back in the centre there was a brief lull. The heavy cavalry seemed to have warded off the attacks on all sides. Francois removed his helmet for the second time. He looked around, as did those of his knights who were still alive. They scanned the fog for any sign of the enemy. Although they could still hear the sound of fighting nearby they saw no one.

  More of them removed their helmets. They looked at each other for confirmation of the thoughts running through their minds. Smiles broke out on several faces. To a man they sensed victory.

  Francois felt a rush of blood inside. He raised his sword high above his head. His enemy heard his cries through the fog. “Victoire!” he screamed. “Victoire!”

  Lombardy. The Mirabello Park outside Pavia.

  February 25, 1525.

  The French knights cheered also. Many of them thought the same thing. Was it really all over? Francois seemed to think so. He could not hide his delight.

  “Brave knights of France!” he cried. “I salute you!”

  “Hail Francois!” they shouted, raising their swords.

  For many it was an effort to even do this. It had been a bitter fight. Every one of them felt drained of every ounce of their strength. They looked at each other. Blood coated their armour. Many sported wounds of one description or another. The victory was a hollow one. The dead bodies of their friends lay all around.

  “It is not over!” Savoy shouted.

  The smile vanished from Francois’ face. He rode the short distance to his knight. “Of course it is over.”

  “Look around you, Sire,” he said. “Most of the dead are ours.”

  “I see thousands of dead Spaniards too,” his king growled.

  A loud war cry rang out from close by. The knights looked towards the fog. They heard an authoritive voice shouting his orders.

  “It is not over,” Savoy said again. “They are going to come back for more.”

  “Perhaps we should leave, Sire,” de Lescun said.

  “Leave? Are you mad?”

  “There are so few of us left.”

  “He is right, Sire,” Chaumont spoke up. “We do not know how many of them are left. There could be thousands.”

  “Then I will fight!” Francois said. He looked around so each of his knights knew his intent. “I will fight until every last one of them lies dead.”

  “France cannot afford to lose you, Francois,” de Lescun advised him.

  “Listen to him, Sire,” Luppe stressed. “We cannot fight them any more.”

  “Look around you!” the king screamed at them. “Have they died for nothing?”

  “They died with honour, Sire. But France will live on. So must you too.”

  “If we give up then we lose everything. They will have died for nothing. I am still your King! I say we stay and fight!”

  Francois fell silent. He noticed his knights looking behind him. He turned to see what it was they saw. His jaw dropped. Dracula emerged from the fog. His sons rode with him to either side.

  Vast numbers walked out of the fog behind them. A line of arquebusiers stretched either side of the three riders. Francois looked along the line. It extended as far as he could see. Others marched behind them. They came in rows five or six deep. The battle was far from over.

  A single shot rang out across the battlefield. Francois heard the sickening crack of metal on metal. It came from somewhere close on his left side. He glanced sharply to his left to see the source of the noise. The closest knight to him was Louis d’Ars. D’Ars rolled to one side before hitting the ground with a thud.

  He looked down in horror. The ball had almost decapitated his friend. It ripped away the lower half of his helmet. Francois quickly fixed his own upon his head once more. When he looked up he saw hundreds of arquebusiers taking aim.

  Time seemed to stand still. Then the calm was shattered. A huge volley rang out. As many as twenty balls ripped into the king’s horse. One deflected off his helmet while another embedded in his right arm. His horse went down.

  The king managed to jump clear, but he hit the ground hard. The fall opened the wound on his arm further. He cried out in agony and dropped his sword. A hoof stamped into the ground only inches from his head. It forced him to turn and roll away. He did so just in time to avoid Savoy’s horse trampling him.

  Savoy struggled to control his animal. The volley had spooked it. He pulled hard on the reins until the horse reared up onto its hind legs. It threw him back. In an attempt to stay in the saddle he yanked the reins even harder. It brought both he and his horse crashing down. The great knight hit the ground close to his king. His mount crashed down on top of him. The enormous weight crushed his ribs. It cracked his hipbone and smashed the joint that connected it to his femur.

  He struggled for breath under his heavy armour. The pain was so much that he bit right into his tongue. A jet of blood shot down his throat. His eyes bulged in their sockets. In a moment they rolled upwards as he began to convulse. His face boiled beneath his helmet. Within a minute he died from heat exhaustion and suffocation.

  Louis d’Ars remained conscious despite the shot that struck him in the face. All around him the horses kicked and wrestled with their riders. He tried hard to get out of the way. However, dazed and with blurred vision, he did not react well enough. A stray hoof clipped the back of his helmet and knocked him down again.

  He groaned at the impact. The shot had ripped most of the flesh from beneath his left cheekbone. The remains hung in strips from the bone. All the teeth on that side of his face were gone. His head throbbed from the searing pain. Still he just managed to keep his wits about him. The instinct to survive came to the fore.

  D’Ars avoided a second thumping hoof. It sunk deep into the mud a few inches from his face. The splash threw the cold mud up into his raw wound. It stung as though it were boiling water against his skin.

  The horses began to panic each other. Many of their riders had fallen from the first volley fired at them. Losing their riders unsettled many of the beasts. They jostled and knocked into the others around them. Hot and sweaty beneath their armour and padding this only agitated them further. The smell of blood and gunpowder smoke filled their nostrils. The clamour of metal and the screams of death echoed in their ears.

  Luppe struggled as Savoy had done. He hung on for dear life as his mount moved around. It stepped back towards d’Ars again. Luppe saw his friend on the ground close by and tried to steer his horse away. The animal fought against him. Even though he remained in the saddle he could not control its movement.

  It kicked back with its hind legs. One of its hooves banged against d’Ars’ rib plating and punched a hole into it. The jagged metal cut a deep gash between his ribs. He rolled back onto his left side. As he moved the armour sliced deeper. He gasped when it tore his right lung.

  His hands pushed down into the mud. He no longer had the energy to move. The horse shot back again. It kicked him in what was left of his mouth. D’Ars fell over onto his back. He collapsed in a sea of black, as blood and his few remaining teeth clogged his windpipe.

  Luppe tugged hard on the reins and managed to turn his mount. The horse spun around as its rider fought to control it. It reared its front legs in protest. When they came down they struck d’Ars in the face and chest. This time he was dead.

  Saint-Sevrin was the master of the king’s horse. His role meant he remained always at Francois’ side. When he saw him fall his only concern was for the welfare of his king. He did not see the back swing from a friendly sword. It sheared off the top of his scalp. He died in an instant, his blood spraying his monarch in the face.

  Francois clawed at his helmet. The blood of his servant had found its way through the slits in the metal. For a moment he could not see. In a bid to clear his eyes he removed it. Only then could
he wipe the blood away.

  Saint-Sevrin still sat upright in the saddle, both his feet firmly in the stirrups. A second volley ripped into the French lines. As Francois cleared his eyes he looked up in horror at the condition of his man. The body of his aide jerked about as the arquebus shot riddled him. The rest of his face exploded under the assault. Blood and tissue flew in every direction.

  Despite his heavy armour Francois remained quite nimble. He was a strong and fit man. But in rising to his feet he caught the spray from his aide full on. He raised his arms aloft in despair.

  When the smoke cleared the Imperials saw they had inflicted serious damage on the remaining cavalry. Hundreds of pairs of eyes fell on the despairing king. He had lost his mount and stood there with his hands in the air.

  The Imperials heard the cry in French. “Que? Qu’est-ce qu’il y a? Qu’arrive-t-il ici?” “What? What is the matter? What is happening here?”

  He did not receive an answer to his question. Not many on his side heard his despairing cry. The Spanish closed in around him. The few members of his bodyguard still alive faced the oncoming threat.

  “Fire again!” Pescara shouted.

  Volley after volley rained in on the French. They riddled the lifeless body of Saint-Sevrin. He finally fell from his horse near to the king’s feet. The third and fourth waves killed Luppe, Chaumont, and d’Isseltain and countless others. Tonerre, de Bussy and de Lescun all hit the ground. The Spanish descended on them like a pack of hungry wolves. With their knives and pikes they ripped their victims to pieces.

  Bonnivet saw his king open and exposed. The enemy swarmed in around Francois. They looked desperate to finish him off. Terror filled the general inside and he gave up any care for his own safety. Raising the visor on his helmet he spurred his mount into the fray. He hacked wildly at the soldiers all around him. His vigour enabled him to cut a path through to his king. Three pikes ripped into his armour. Still he fought on. It did not matter to him if he died. The king had to survive at all costs.

  He clubbed the heads of every man in his way. Skulls smashed under the weight of his attack. He took several arquebus shots to the body that left him clinging onto life. Another ball smashed into the back of his hand. He cried out and dropped his mace to the ground. His enemies dragged him from his mount. The moment he hit the mud he suffered the same fate as his comrades before him.

  Francois’ knights fought to the death to defend him. La Roche du Maine, de Lignac and Chavigny all fell near to his feet. They fought with great courage, but could not hold off the onslaught. Others ran to his side. They sensed all was lost now. De Lavedan and de Sainte-Mesmes also gave their lives trying to save his.

  It gave the Spanish a clear sight of Francois now. There were no more than a half a dozen knights left. None of them had anything left to give. In quick succession they all fell. Only Francois remained alive in that area of the field.

  The young king knew he had nowhere to turn. His knights lay dead all around him. In their places he saw only the enemy. Yet he did not fear them. He stood with his sword poised for the first of them to strike.

  With his great sword he deflected a blow from a pike. He moved to one side with real grace and agility. Before his assailant could raise the pike again he brought the sword down across his neck.

  He turned and drove his sword into the chest of another. Even before the man dropped down Francois moved aside again. He spun and hacked the arm off a third who had stolen in behind him. The man cried out and sank to his knees.

  Francois shouted and screamed out loud with every swing of his sword. Nigh on thirty knifemen closed in on him. Despite their number they approached him with care. Francois still moved well. He had plenty of fight left in him. However, they were desperate for his blood. Several of them lashed out at him with their blades.

  His armour took several blows before he killed two more of his attackers. Finally they pulled him down. The Spanish began to fight each other. They all wanted the spoils. A piece of his armour would prove they were present at his slaying. Still Francois resisted them. He punched and kicked out with every ounce of strength he had left.

  Dracula only just noticed the plight of the French king. With the fog and the masses of bodies both standing and fallen it was hard to see anything. His sons remained at his side. De Lannoy was also close by.

  His blood boiled. No ordinary soldier had the right to put a hand on a king. That rule stood whether it was war or not. He feared he would not get there in time to save him. “Spare the King!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Spare the King!”

  The others echoed his cry when they heard it. “Spare the King!”

  They fought their way through the crowd. Where necessary they struck their own men down.

  “The King is not to be harmed!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Spare the King!”

  His command fell on deaf ears. De Lannoy took Dracula’s lead when the vampire attacked the Spanish gathered around Francois. Varkal and Mihnea joined in. The soldiers had lost all sense and reason. Instead of stepping aside they fought back.

  Dracula went crazy. He and the others cut them down without mercy. “I will see every one of you dead!” he shouted.

  His sword was much too fast for any of them to counter. He sprayed the field with their blood. De Lannoy arrived on the scene very soon after him. He too wielded his sword in the king’s defence. The other generals rushed over.

  With their mounts the four of them managed to disperse the troops around Francois. The king got to his feet. He looked bloodied and weary. They had stripped away most of his armour.

  Still the Spanish would not yield. They had a scent of blood they could not let go of. They wanted to kill the French king. Whosoever got in the way would die too.

  De Lannoy jumped down from his horse. He stood in front of Francois and shielded the king with his own body. The Spanish circled them both. When one fell another took his place.

  The three vampires struggled to keep the Spanish at bay. De Lannoy cried out for help. Others relayed his plea further back across the field. The Neapolitans answered his call. They had only just entered the Park. Their cavalry launched a vicious attack against the arquebusiers and pikemen. At the same time de Lannoy continued to shield the king with the aid of Dracula and his sons.

  The battle saw a lot more blood spilled. Finally the Neapolitans, led by Giacomo de Nocera, warded off the attack. They formed a strong shield around Francois.

  Dracula climbed down from his horse and ran to the side of the king. “Sont-vous a nui, mon Suzerain?” “Are you hurt, my Liege?”

  Francois looked up at him. “No,” he said calmly. “Hardly at all.”

  Dracula turned to those of his men who had ridden up. “Find me a blanket!”

  He removed his cape and draped it around Francois. “Relax, my Liege,” he said. “You are safe.”

  Francois clung on to the garment for warmth. He did not thank Dracula. “Why did you save me?”

  “You are the King,” he said. “This was no way for you to die.”

  “Perhaps it was my destiny to die today.”

  “No, Sire,” Dracula said, shaking his head. “Not this day.”

  Pescara arrived with del Vasto at his side. Dracula left Francois to speak with him. De Lannoy got to him first. He advised his leader of what had happened.

  Francois looked about him. All around his noble friends lay dead in their masses. He felt a dreadful sense of loss. Never again would he drink and make merry with them. They were lost to him forever.

  Pescara’s face turned red at the news. In the same way Dracula’s blood had boiled so did his. He climbed down off his horse and walked over to Francois.

  He bowed to the French king. “Are you well, Sire?”

  Francois nodded. “Who are you?”

  “I am the commander-in-chief of this army.”

  “Pescara?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Francois offered a gentle bow of his
own. “It is an honour,” he said. “You fought a great battle.”

  Pescara looked around. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “See to it they get the proper burial.”

  Pescara nodded. “You have my word, Sire.”

  He left the king to admonish those that had attacked him. They lowered their heads at his approach. He launched a scathing tirade at them. For their indiscretion he delegated the task to them of digging the graves for the dead.

  At this time de Bourbon and Frundsberg were almost a mile away. They amassed large numbers of men, as they moved through the fog. Many groups had broken away from the main body of the army. Some chased the survivors. Those men were looking for the quickest route out of the Park.

  The two generals rounded their men up. Many of those they found had wounds from the battle. Others were just totally lost in the fog. De Bourbon then led the chase against those attempting to flee.

  D’Alencon crossed the Ticino with a large number of his men. De Leyva had moved his forces across to the gate known as Le Portone. This blocked any access to the Park to the eight thousand Swiss troops who remained around the five abbeys.

  He split his force into two. The main part he kept with him at Le Portone. The rest he sent to aid in the final slaughter of the French around the castle.

  Further east Florange rallied the remnants of his army. His officers rode around, as de Bourbon had done, to round up any stragglers. He knew his king was in mortal danger and needed he and his men. To offer some relief he launched a last-ditch attack on the enemy.

  On his order they charged the Spanish lines. However, they were ill equipped to take on the arquebusiers. The result saw them cut to pieces. Every one of Florange’s captains met their death.

  When Hannequin, de Fribourg and d’Isepart fell the few Swiss who remained gave up the fight. They emerged from the fog with their arms raised above their heads. The arquebusiers showed them no mercy. They fired off two more volleys until every last man was dead.