Parmenion
04-10-2003, 00:06
'Twas a cool, dry morning in Tunisia when King Fernando II received the messenger in his campaigning pavilion. He ignored the kneeling youth and read the
cracked parchment whilst stroking his grey beard thoughtfully.
So, the good King of Aragon needs my help eh. He mused to himself. The tiny nation of Aragon was all that lay between his God-fearing lands of Spain and the excommunicated
heathens of France. These pagan Frenchmen had rampaged across the English holdings for the last 20 or so years, taking three provinces in as many years. Now their armies lay camped outside the great Castle of Marracos, trapping King Alfonso and his family within it's walls. It came as no surprise to hear this news, indeed, he had expected it for some time. The Aragonese had become a nation of peaceful merchants under their good-natured King, and their armies were but a shadow of what they once were. A tempting
target for any unscrupulous rogue, particularly one such as King Louis of France.
Send for the Cid, he called to his valet in the awning, and fetch my morning cup.
The five sons of King Fernando were all capable young men, forged in battle and tempered at court. They were great generals of armies of their own, and protected the Spanish holdings at the behest of their father. Pedro, the eldest, was busy trouncing the Egyptians after crushing the Almohad King and his heirs only two years ago. He was a
fine general but too far away and too busy to be of any help now. His other four sons were tied down in Iberia, ensuring the loyalty of the mostly Muslim southern provinces. The only available army was in Valencia, commanded by Don Frederigo, an untried man more used to stewardship and building projects than the noble art of war. The troops were the finest in Spain though. They had fought and won many battles, and were fanatically loyal
to their Duke and King. They had been itching for action for months now, and many of them had requested to come to Africa to serve under the royal banner. It seemed they would be granted their wish of some action fairly soon, although not in Africa.
Within hours a fast dhow-of-war was speeding it's way like a gull towards Valencia. It's cargo was only a Spanish general and his command staff, but it was a precious cargo, particularly to the Kings of both Spain and Aragon. The Duke of Valencia was coming home.
Duke Cid rode at the head of his army. He had noted that his men were confident despite the cold and wet weather. Many were happy to fight against innumerable odds if they were commanded by himself, and this gave him some comfort as he marched towards what may be his last battle. Behind him rode his units of Jinettes and Royal Knights,
and further back the spearmen and archers of foot, trudging through the mud with smiles on their faces. Other men will march through countless leagues of mud and snow, fight a
battle and face a possibly gruesome death, and yet none will do it with a smile like his brave Spaniards. The King had offered him the hardened mercenaries of Tunisia to take with him, but Duke Cid had declined. He knew he needed none but his own army of Valencian die-hards. Still, the general of the French had nearly twice his number of men, most of them well fed on the spoils of war plundered in Aragon. The King's spies though, reported that the Frenchman was a soldier of little consequence who had lost more battles than he had won. This bolstered the Duke's confidence even more, and he even gave in to the contagious atmosphere of good-humour and granted himself his own little smile.
It quickly became obvious that the Frenchman hadn't a clue about warfare. The Duke's flanking Jinettes and Knights went unnoticed as the French pushed on, marching
into the range of the Spanish archers. Volley after volley of feathered death flew through the air to bury itself in the body of some French peasant or man-at-arms. The Spanish archers laughed and made wagers amongst themselves - who could take down the fat, French peacock of a general was the most popular one. The spearmen behind them relaxed and stood at ease, although the Duke knew they would be ready for anything at a moment's notice, so he gave them their little liberties. Meanwhile the French marched on and died. One or two Spaniards fell as the French archers came within bowshot, but the Spanish never made omlettes without breaking eggs, and now it was time to smash a few French eggs. At a signal, the cavalry wheeled round and cantered into their final position behind and flanking the French army. The Duke could see the French staff officers gesticulating to their general, but it seemed he thought little of their opinions. Maybe the Frenchman thought he could storm up this little hill and take out the enemy general, thus routing the Spanish from the field. The Duke thought it highly likely that his troops would be more inclined to take a bloody vengeance on the French if he were to fall in battle. Pity the enemy who killed Duke Cid whilst his army was still in the field.
The Jinettes began their swift approach to the enemy rear, releasing their heavy javelins that pierced through steel and flesh alike. They turned and retreated, allowing the next wave to approach and release their own javelins. This continued for what seemed an age until the three units of French spearmen in the rear turned to face their
irritating foes.
Despite the shouts of command from their general, the French spearmen advanced upon the Jinettes menacingly, only to have the enemy cavalry dance out of harms way and then
release another stinging volley of javelins into their ranks. Infuriated by these tactics, the spearmen charged the light cavalry, only to find that they were now cut off
from the rest of their army with Mounted Spanish knights closing in on either flank. The noise of the cavalry charge was terrific, and many French fled before the charge hit
home. Within seconds the once-orderly ranks of spearmen degenerated into an unruly mob of sweating, bleeding soldiers desperate to reach safety. But they had nowhere to go. The Jinettes drew their heavy, longswords and also charged home, inflicting even more damage on the French ranks. Duke Cid saw the French general turn and survey the wreckage that was his rear guard. When the Spanish cavalry finished their gruesome work they wheeled and began a casual, yet threatening trot towards the back of the French lines.
This must have been the final straw for the enemy. Each and every Frenchman, soldier and officer alike, turned and fled back down the hill, right into the teeth of the Spanish lances and swords. The Duke allowed himself another smile, this one grimmer than the last, and gave the order for the infantry to charge. The fleeing French were caught betwixt hammer and anvil and carnage ensued. Even the archers stopped firing and drew their blades to cut down any of the enemy in the melee.
Don Frederigo, laughing and whooping, clapped the Duke on the back in a congratulatory salute, You did it m'lord. Two French dogs to every Spaniard, and their losses must be
ten times ours Frederigo was not exaggerating either, men in the dark blue livery of France lay strewn everywhere in poses of grim death or writhing in their throes. Small
huddles of the living enemy were being rounded up by the Jinettes to be disarmed and hobbled. There would be a pretty packet in ransom today, and that made his men even more happy - Old King Fernando had always been kind in sharing the spoils of war amongst his troops, and the Valencians were ever his favourites.
Hours later the Duke was in his pavilion thinking of his King hundreds of miles away, but in a much warmer clime. He had half composed his report of the battle when one of his guards entered hurriedly through the embroidered canvas flap. Beggin' yer pardon Your Grace, but the King of the Aragonese sends his compliments and asks that you and your staff visit him at a feast held in your honour. The guard was breathless and excited as he continued with a proud grin, An' he says 'twere grand of you to break the
siege like you did and rid his land of the evil Froggies. Duke Cid gave a message of humble acceptance to take back to King Alfonso and then sat back down at his desk. He drew his long slender sword and looked fondly at the engravings and jewels set into the blade and pommel. Unbuttoning his tunic he made a deft cut across his chest before wiping and resheathing the exquisite blade. It had become a habit of his to always blood his sword when in battle, but recently the blood had more frequently been his own. The Duke gave a sigh and dabbed at the cut on his chest with a damp cloth. It would look fine when it healed over, right next to the other dozen or so scars that bore testament to his skill as a general.
The afternoon wore on and the Duke completed his report to the sounds of singing men, drunk on victory and pride.
Tomorrow would be a new day filled with trepidation and maybe a liitle fear, for who knew what the greedy French King would do in response to this stinging insult. He would most likely send another army across the Pyrenees, a bigger army with better commanders too. Then the Duke would face an even harder test.
For now though he was content, and he smiled once more as he thought of the coming feast and the warm, welcoming arms of some Aragonese princess. Three smiles in one day, Good Lord in Heaven, he must truly be getting old.
cracked parchment whilst stroking his grey beard thoughtfully.
So, the good King of Aragon needs my help eh. He mused to himself. The tiny nation of Aragon was all that lay between his God-fearing lands of Spain and the excommunicated
heathens of France. These pagan Frenchmen had rampaged across the English holdings for the last 20 or so years, taking three provinces in as many years. Now their armies lay camped outside the great Castle of Marracos, trapping King Alfonso and his family within it's walls. It came as no surprise to hear this news, indeed, he had expected it for some time. The Aragonese had become a nation of peaceful merchants under their good-natured King, and their armies were but a shadow of what they once were. A tempting
target for any unscrupulous rogue, particularly one such as King Louis of France.
Send for the Cid, he called to his valet in the awning, and fetch my morning cup.
The five sons of King Fernando were all capable young men, forged in battle and tempered at court. They were great generals of armies of their own, and protected the Spanish holdings at the behest of their father. Pedro, the eldest, was busy trouncing the Egyptians after crushing the Almohad King and his heirs only two years ago. He was a
fine general but too far away and too busy to be of any help now. His other four sons were tied down in Iberia, ensuring the loyalty of the mostly Muslim southern provinces. The only available army was in Valencia, commanded by Don Frederigo, an untried man more used to stewardship and building projects than the noble art of war. The troops were the finest in Spain though. They had fought and won many battles, and were fanatically loyal
to their Duke and King. They had been itching for action for months now, and many of them had requested to come to Africa to serve under the royal banner. It seemed they would be granted their wish of some action fairly soon, although not in Africa.
Within hours a fast dhow-of-war was speeding it's way like a gull towards Valencia. It's cargo was only a Spanish general and his command staff, but it was a precious cargo, particularly to the Kings of both Spain and Aragon. The Duke of Valencia was coming home.
Duke Cid rode at the head of his army. He had noted that his men were confident despite the cold and wet weather. Many were happy to fight against innumerable odds if they were commanded by himself, and this gave him some comfort as he marched towards what may be his last battle. Behind him rode his units of Jinettes and Royal Knights,
and further back the spearmen and archers of foot, trudging through the mud with smiles on their faces. Other men will march through countless leagues of mud and snow, fight a
battle and face a possibly gruesome death, and yet none will do it with a smile like his brave Spaniards. The King had offered him the hardened mercenaries of Tunisia to take with him, but Duke Cid had declined. He knew he needed none but his own army of Valencian die-hards. Still, the general of the French had nearly twice his number of men, most of them well fed on the spoils of war plundered in Aragon. The King's spies though, reported that the Frenchman was a soldier of little consequence who had lost more battles than he had won. This bolstered the Duke's confidence even more, and he even gave in to the contagious atmosphere of good-humour and granted himself his own little smile.
It quickly became obvious that the Frenchman hadn't a clue about warfare. The Duke's flanking Jinettes and Knights went unnoticed as the French pushed on, marching
into the range of the Spanish archers. Volley after volley of feathered death flew through the air to bury itself in the body of some French peasant or man-at-arms. The Spanish archers laughed and made wagers amongst themselves - who could take down the fat, French peacock of a general was the most popular one. The spearmen behind them relaxed and stood at ease, although the Duke knew they would be ready for anything at a moment's notice, so he gave them their little liberties. Meanwhile the French marched on and died. One or two Spaniards fell as the French archers came within bowshot, but the Spanish never made omlettes without breaking eggs, and now it was time to smash a few French eggs. At a signal, the cavalry wheeled round and cantered into their final position behind and flanking the French army. The Duke could see the French staff officers gesticulating to their general, but it seemed he thought little of their opinions. Maybe the Frenchman thought he could storm up this little hill and take out the enemy general, thus routing the Spanish from the field. The Duke thought it highly likely that his troops would be more inclined to take a bloody vengeance on the French if he were to fall in battle. Pity the enemy who killed Duke Cid whilst his army was still in the field.
The Jinettes began their swift approach to the enemy rear, releasing their heavy javelins that pierced through steel and flesh alike. They turned and retreated, allowing the next wave to approach and release their own javelins. This continued for what seemed an age until the three units of French spearmen in the rear turned to face their
irritating foes.
Despite the shouts of command from their general, the French spearmen advanced upon the Jinettes menacingly, only to have the enemy cavalry dance out of harms way and then
release another stinging volley of javelins into their ranks. Infuriated by these tactics, the spearmen charged the light cavalry, only to find that they were now cut off
from the rest of their army with Mounted Spanish knights closing in on either flank. The noise of the cavalry charge was terrific, and many French fled before the charge hit
home. Within seconds the once-orderly ranks of spearmen degenerated into an unruly mob of sweating, bleeding soldiers desperate to reach safety. But they had nowhere to go. The Jinettes drew their heavy, longswords and also charged home, inflicting even more damage on the French ranks. Duke Cid saw the French general turn and survey the wreckage that was his rear guard. When the Spanish cavalry finished their gruesome work they wheeled and began a casual, yet threatening trot towards the back of the French lines.
This must have been the final straw for the enemy. Each and every Frenchman, soldier and officer alike, turned and fled back down the hill, right into the teeth of the Spanish lances and swords. The Duke allowed himself another smile, this one grimmer than the last, and gave the order for the infantry to charge. The fleeing French were caught betwixt hammer and anvil and carnage ensued. Even the archers stopped firing and drew their blades to cut down any of the enemy in the melee.
Don Frederigo, laughing and whooping, clapped the Duke on the back in a congratulatory salute, You did it m'lord. Two French dogs to every Spaniard, and their losses must be
ten times ours Frederigo was not exaggerating either, men in the dark blue livery of France lay strewn everywhere in poses of grim death or writhing in their throes. Small
huddles of the living enemy were being rounded up by the Jinettes to be disarmed and hobbled. There would be a pretty packet in ransom today, and that made his men even more happy - Old King Fernando had always been kind in sharing the spoils of war amongst his troops, and the Valencians were ever his favourites.
Hours later the Duke was in his pavilion thinking of his King hundreds of miles away, but in a much warmer clime. He had half composed his report of the battle when one of his guards entered hurriedly through the embroidered canvas flap. Beggin' yer pardon Your Grace, but the King of the Aragonese sends his compliments and asks that you and your staff visit him at a feast held in your honour. The guard was breathless and excited as he continued with a proud grin, An' he says 'twere grand of you to break the
siege like you did and rid his land of the evil Froggies. Duke Cid gave a message of humble acceptance to take back to King Alfonso and then sat back down at his desk. He drew his long slender sword and looked fondly at the engravings and jewels set into the blade and pommel. Unbuttoning his tunic he made a deft cut across his chest before wiping and resheathing the exquisite blade. It had become a habit of his to always blood his sword when in battle, but recently the blood had more frequently been his own. The Duke gave a sigh and dabbed at the cut on his chest with a damp cloth. It would look fine when it healed over, right next to the other dozen or so scars that bore testament to his skill as a general.
The afternoon wore on and the Duke completed his report to the sounds of singing men, drunk on victory and pride.
Tomorrow would be a new day filled with trepidation and maybe a liitle fear, for who knew what the greedy French King would do in response to this stinging insult. He would most likely send another army across the Pyrenees, a bigger army with better commanders too. Then the Duke would face an even harder test.
For now though he was content, and he smiled once more as he thought of the coming feast and the warm, welcoming arms of some Aragonese princess. Three smiles in one day, Good Lord in Heaven, he must truly be getting old.