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View Full Version : A Soldiers Prayer (read at thy peril)



Anselm
07-19-2004, 01:08
And this it what you get. This may not be an accurate tale. I do not know what the third Earl of Warrick looked like, or even if there was one. I don't know if he ever went to Brittany or if a fight like this ever took place. It seems doubtful I think. I just wrote this for the hell of it, inspired by recent success on Medieval total war, and intent to make a short story out of it. It has many similarities with Bernard Cornwells excellent medieval series (especially the Longbowman main character) it is not a plagorism attempt, merely a useful too lto practice my writing with :-D. Anyway, without further a do, I present tonights special feature, a Soldier's Prayer.


Chapter I

The Third Earl of Warrick sat disconsolate on his chestnut mare. A cold breeze played around him bringing a hint of rain. His hair stirred in the wind but not a muscle moved on his face, as if he was etched from some grim block of uncompromising stone. He was clothed in red, the bright scarlet red of England with the three golden lions displayed proudly across his chest. Under his shift lay plate armour, metal nearly a quarter inch thick encasing his arms legs and body. A large man at six feet tall with a barrel like chest, he was a fearsome figure, and was renown for his ox like strength. Behind him, in four ranks were the small amount of cavalry he'd been allotted. Nearly two hundred men in all, armoured like him, each equiped with a lance and sword. Each muttering his own prayer.

Out in front of the Earl, fifty yards down the hill he was on top of, were his infantry. An outer ring of halbediers and swordsmen protected an inner ring of archers using the lately infamous longbows.

The grass was long and thick, the fields plentiful and the soil dark. A lush land, fed on blood and tears.

The hill of the Earl's choosing was the highest in the area, nearly 300 feet in altitude and a gradient that meant it was only about 700 feet from base to summit. A man could walk it easily, but not without becoming short on breath.

In the valley at its feet, the French gathered. Blue coated rank after rank filed and drilled and slowly an army jostled into position. From the hill it was hard to estimate how many men the French had brought to this place. Maybe five thousand. Maybe twenty. No one knew.

A cloud of doubt had infused the English camp the last few days. Uncertainty and rumour grew, as the men realised just what a predicament the 'army' was caught in. They were in Brittany, trapped and alone. The greater part of the army had fled, nearly thirty thousand men in all had run. The Third Earl of Warrick had been assigned to guard the retreat. They had become ensnared in a running engagement for the better part of a week now, and had been completely left behind by the rest of army. The Earl and his three thousand men were alone, and making their stand.

Exhausted from weeks of marching and fighting from dawn till dusk, they were the dregs of England. Convicts, pick pockets thieves and patriots. They were bloody, dirty, viscous and as loyal as any one could have asked, and here on a hill in Brittany, they stood.

It was still early, no one knew but it was thought to be around eight o'clock in the morning. The night's mist had receded but the moisture in the air was still cold. The men shivered as they waited in line. They thought of loved ones, of friends. They thought of a home they might never see again.

The French began their march up the hill in silence, saving their breath for the walk. The English stirred themselves, made sure they were in straight lines, made sure weapons were ready to be drawn, that bows were strung.

Among the archers stood a man. Will was his name, William Jones. He had been training on longbows since the age of ten and now, at twenty four years of age, he was happier with no other weapon. A shout slowly travelled along the line of archers to nock their arrows. Will did this, taking an arrow out of the soil in front of his feet were he had pushed in the eighty or so he had been given for the battle. All the shafts protruding gave the odd impression of a small, knee hight thicket a yard in front of the men.

He held the bow comfortably infront of him. Despite the cold, sweat began to bead on his forhead, and his arm trembled.

God, please let me live through this.

Take your aim

Look after my family if I don't survive.

Steady

Please.

Loose

A thousand arrows flew into the air, humming as they rose, and arched gracefully overhead. There was a moments apparent silence as they flew out of ear shot and the archers picked new arrows, but then there were screams and the first Frenchmen fell.

Their pace increased to a shambling jog. They were closer now, so close that he could see their breath fogging in the air.

It seemed the French general was taking a butchers gamble; a headlong rush designed to swipe the English force aside with a sledgehammer blow.

The archers were in their element now, shaft after shaft soared into the air, so many that their fingers bled and their shoulders ached from the strain. But they fired on regardless. It was all they knew.

The men at arms readied them selves as the French ran full tilt, just thirty yards away. Grips shifted on swords and men braced themselves a soldiers prayer.

For what we are about to receive...

The French crashed in the mail coated ranks, hacking their way through. The English line shook like a wounded animal, and then with a roar of defiance, they surged forward at the French and the battle was met.

Will rested his bow on the ground. The French reserves were out of range and shooting troops in combat was plain foolery. Looking downhill, he could see that a great wedge had been driven into the English. Only five ranks deep, the enemy had almost burst through the line in this first charge and, try as the might, the men at arms desperate struggle to repel the blue coated attackers was proving futile.

The sound of the battle increased in pitch. Swords clashing, metal against mail and the sickening sound of butchered flesh assaulted Will's ears and he winced as he heard a terrible scream, full of despair and misery rend the air.

The English men at arms began to give ground. Edging backwards, they began to close the gap between themselves and the archers, leaving their wounded comrades behind.

The French sensed their impending victory and their sergeants cheered them on. They were drunk on glory, lusting for death and violence and they slaked their thirst with a terrible light in their eyes.

The English line broke. Not piece meal, it just crumbled and collapsed. One moment their had been a brave and proud group of men fighting for king and country. The next they were just a screaming mob, charging recklessly up hill in an attempt to escape the swords.

Will swore and drew his axe as did the rest of the archers. Just to the right of him, a small group of apparent veterans had rallied, lending their strength to the archers who really had small chance of success should they stand.

One man at arms took command upon himself . Hold Hold the line Wait Wait... Now CHARGE And with that, the archers leapt into the fray.

The French were completely taken by surprise. They were screaming like fiends, chasing this demoralised enemy and slaughtering them as they ran. Then suddenly, the retreating backs seemed to disappear, and they were replaced with men who did not run.

Axe in hand, Will screamed. He screamed to release the terrible fear in his gut, to scare the enemy. He screamed just to know that he was still alive and shouting incoherently he barged his way into the disorganised French.
A blue coated soldier was in front of him and he checked, realising that these mud smeared men were no longer running but were attacking and intending to win. Will brought his axe down in a crushing arch and flinched from the terrible scream as the weapon sunk into the mans shoulder. Pulling it free, he staggered backwards and a man in a red coat stepped in front of him and took a sword in the belly that had been aimed at Will. He stared down at the steel coated in his own blood and collapsed with a sigh.

Will screamed again, a terrible white hot fury possessing him and he lunged at the Frenchman, waving his axe in great glittering sweeps driving the enemy back. If he still screamed he did not know it, he didn't think or care, he just kept moving forward. How many men fell he didn't know. He became absorbed inside this jostling mass of people and let his blood guide his hands.

Suddenly his axe was ripped from his hands and he was cast backwards into the mud. A giant man, blood stained and terrifying screamed at him and threw his axe aside and Will knew it was over. He closed his eyes and prepared for the end.

A French soldier behind him tried to run backwards, tripped and kicked Will in the back of the head. He fell blissfully unconscious as the lights went out, and the sounds of battle faded around him, still wondering if he was going to die.

Well, what do you think?

The Blind King of Bohemia
07-19-2004, 16:11
Very nice, cornwall-esque work there mate. The Grail trilogy is great, Thomas of Hookton is great character, love the books (maybe not the third one as much though)

Ludens
07-20-2004, 15:20
It's good, Anselm. I always like it when writers divert their attention from the 'hacking and slashing' to the fear of the ordinary men.
I can't judge how much of it is taken from other auther's work, but remember:

If you steal from one author, it's plagiarism; if you steal from many, it's research.
(Wilson Mizner)
https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif

ShadesWolf
07-20-2004, 21:50
Nice https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/ceasaryes.gif

If you liked cornwell, then might I make a suggestion that you look for a series of books by Sara Douglass - The Crucible. They are also set during the hundred years war period. They are quite long on average twice the size of Bernards work, but well worth a look.

Keep up the good work.

The Blind King of Bohemia
07-20-2004, 22:38
Also get the celtic crusade trilogy by stephen lawhead, great great books(the third one is shite though, avoid the bugger at all costs) https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/wave.gif

Anselm
07-21-2004, 00:19
None of it is actual plagiarism otherwise all the funs out of it isn't it?

What I meant was the whole 'english longbow archer seriously cool kills every one kind of guy' has been done before by cornwell, and far better than I ever could. I just figured that that sort of character is a good starting point for a short story so I nabbed him and changed his name Ingenious, eh? https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/wink.gif

skullbone
07-21-2004, 09:42
Nice work man I like it but it feel strange when u suddenly zoom in on a bowman called William Jones.I think it don't really click with the story.But all in all a job well done. https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif