The watchman, Thomas Style, first saw the riders. He awoke the bleary-eyed sergeant, a Scotsman who grunted and pronounced:
“Bloody Lancers. See how they ride, Thomas? They always ride like that, hurtin’ the poor horses.” He looked out through the passing night, still half-asleep, before repeating, “Aye. Bloody Lancers.”
“What’s wrong with Lancers, Rob?” the watchman asked. He was still just a boy, and was not aware of the infantryman’s contempt of the mounted wing of the army.
“Rich buggers, that’s what’s wrong with ‘em. ‘Lord Fitzwilliamson, Duke of somewhereorother and commander of the King’s army’” the sergeant mocked, striking a stupid pose as he did. “‘Sides, they’re arrogant an’ all. ‘You, commoner, fetch my horse some hay’ they says” he looked down his nose at the watchman as he said this, again mocking the upper classes.
“Should I light the watchfire?” asked Style,
“Go on ‘en.”
The messenger stood in front of the Englishman, Baron Hugh Fitzjohn.
“Lord Stephan de Toulouse sends word, monsieur, zat ze armies of ze English King occupy ze land of Aquitaine against ze will of ze French people. ‘E asks zat you remove your armies from zis province, or ‘e will be forced to revert to crude warfare.”
“Tell the Lord Stephan, that this land belongs to King Henry II, and any attempt to take it will be resisted by the King’s armies. Now go”
“My Lord, ze Lord Stephan de…”
“GO” Fitzjohn interrupted fiercely. The messenger took the hint and left. “Damn their eyes. Langland”
“Wrong arm, yer fool” the sergeant laughed as the boy struggled to put on his chainmail coat.
“I knows. I knows.”
“Yer don’t, or yer’d put it on right the firs’ time”
“What’s these Frenchies like anyway?”
“Same as you English. Knights in fancy armour and ord’nary men in no armour. Rich men leadin’ poor men.”
“But…”
“But nothin’. All comes down to who’s got more men, or better weapons, or wha’ever. No, the shield goes on the left arm ye eejit”
A calm, fine day. A lovely day, were it not for the French. A month had passed since the messengers had left, indignantly trotting out of the castle as though it belonged to them. Soon, God forbid, it might thought Fitzjohn, surveying his men.
“Frenchies forming up in the valley, sir. Looks like about 5,000 men, sir.” Panted the scout, out of breath from the run up the hill that the English army was positioned on.
Damn their eyes 5,000 That’s twice what we have Let’s hope those Welshmen do their jobs right.
“Those longbows are frightening, sir.” The scout seemed to know what he was thinking.
“Hmm… Cavalry on the flanks, Langland?” he turned to his squire.
“Yes, sir”
“Good. The whole battle rests on those Welshmen.” He gestured to the longbowmen forming up behind the wall of spears, “God help us.”
They could see the French now. Their blue banners swayed in the air above blocks of blue soldiers. The sun glinted off their spears, swords and shields. All was still. The French commander was probably still deciding whether to launch the cavalry scouts, or just attack. Rob Ross and Thomas Style stood close to the centre of the English line, two of the ‘lucky’ ones. The front row, about as lucky as the pox. They rested their heavy spears on their shoulders, like all the other soldiers. Their teardrop shields were attached to their left forearms, creating a form of the old ‘shield wall’ their ancestors had fought in. The line seemed to stretch forever to their left and right. Behind them were the longbowmen, those tough Welshman who held their massive bows down by their sides. Off in the distance, they could see the scouts trading the first blows of the engagement, the horsemen now attacking each other, now withdrawing, now attacking. It seemed so far away, down there in the valley, as though the battle was just there, and didn’t apply up on the hill. The English horsemen withdrew first. First blood to the French, it seemed from the line. The initial skirmishes were over, now, and the French began to advance.
“Here they come, sir.”
“Hmm… Move the line forward ten paces.” Fitzjohn stood at the back, just to the right of the centre, as the ancient generals had done.
“Aye, sir.” Langland then shouted, “LINE WILL MOVE TEN PACES FORWARDS” The various officers and sergeants along the line repeated the order, and slowly the line shuffled forwards.
“Faster, damn you My God, I hope they move their mangy, pox-ridden hides a little faster when the French arrive” Fitzjohn rode forward his ten paces, and then said, “Langland, I’m going to the longbowmen. Who’s commanding them? Anyway, I’m going to give the orders there. Whoever it is, they’ll probably end up firing far too early.”
The French were at the foot of the hill, now, and behind them Ross and Style heard Fitzjohn roaring orders they didn’t understand, his sword raised. Suddenly, he swept his sword down, and the sky went black. The bodkin arrows shot overheard. The young ones crouched and covered their heads. The veterans just stood, knowing that the longbowmen were better than that. The arrows struck the front row of the French line, and bodies fell, the line weakening for a second, but then the men behind stepped forwards, and the line kept marching up the hill as though nothing had happened.
“Merciful Lord” Style, pious to the end, exclaimed to Ross, who just stood, facing forward. He was waiting for the French reply. There, the French crossbowmen stopped, took aim, and fired. But the morning air had dampened their strings, and those that did fire fell short. A few lucky shots, a few dead, but nothing serious. The longbows answered, their strings better looked after, their arrows doing real damage. Again, the French stepped over their dead, and kept going.
“Name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Protect me, Lord, from those who wish to do me harm. Amen.” The Scotsman looked up again, reassured now.
“Send the Cavalry out wide. We’ll hold them, then flank them.”
“Sir.” The cavalryman rode back to the body of armoured, mounted Knights.
“When the Frenchy gets to that point,” Fitzjohn gestured to a piece of scrub twenty paces ahead of the English line, “charge.”
“Sir.” The spear officer did as the cavalryman had done, walking back to his line.
The longbows had fired about ten volleys at the enemy line, now, and they would have to stop soon, Fitzjohn knew, as he swept down his sword, ordering the eleventh volley at the French line. They were getting close, and the longbows would soon be forced to concentrate on the enemy crossbowmen, as the spears of both lines would be locked together, inseparable.
“You” Fitzjohn gestured to the man who was supposed to be in command. What was his name? Never mind. “You have command of these Welshmen. Target the crossbowmen.”
“Sir. The crossbowmen, sir.” The man knew not to aggravate Fitzjohn with questions. That just made him angrier.
“Don’t repeat it, DO IT”
“Yes, sir Bowmen, present”
“Now where are those damned cavalrymen? Langland”
“Where are those cav’lrymen? Rich buggers…” Ross scanned the horizon, always returning to the French line, always looking for the second when the enemy spearmen began to run, when the fight began.
“Gone, Rob. Gone.” Style looked distraught.
“Better off without ‘em. Now look for’ard, boy”
There, they were at that piece of scrub he’d shown. Why wasn’t that spear officer charging his men? And where were those damned cavalry? Damn them all Fitzjohn dismounted, shoving the reins of his horse at Langland. He was running through the longbowmen, who were now duelling with the enemy crossbows. There, the line of spearmen. He kept running.
“Charge Charge, damn your eyes CHARGE” He reached the front row, “Damn you all Charge, you pox-ridden, stinking cowards” he screamed as the men reacted to the heavily armoured Baron in their front row, and began to run forwards.
“Come, on Thomas Let’s go” shouted Ross as the Baron came up level with them. They began to run at the French, the gap closed, and then the two lines struck.
Fitzjohn was still with the spearmen, swinging his huge sword at the blue spearmen in front of him. To his left and right, he could see the line was holding. A Frenchman thrust his spear at him. Fitzjohn batted it aside, snarled, and reversed his parry into the man’s neck. Prising the sword away from the limp body, he stabbed at the Frenchman to his left. He twisted the blade free, and glanced to his left and right. Still holding. Good. He parried another thrust, this time hacking down at the man’s shoulder. He had to get out of the spear block if he was to command the battle, but he couldn’t leave, the men would think he was running away. He stabbed a Frenchman in the guts, twisting the sword to free it as the man slumped. He couldn’t leave the fight. He’d have to leave the other aspects of the battle to his subordinates. Damn.
Ross and Style were close to Fitzjohn, still in the centre of the battle line. They thrusted their spears at the French, parrying and deflecting blows on their shields as they did. Ross was fighting like a demon, screaming Highland war cries. He caught a spear on his shield, stabbing the man in the ribs. The spear stuck. He let go, still catching blows on his shield. He thrust the end at a Frenchman, catching him in the stomach. He then used the metal boss to smash the man’s skull. Scrabbling for a weapon, he picked up a French spear. Screaming a challenge, he got up, driving the spear up into the ribs of a Frenchman about to skewer Style. Men were falling left and right. Out of the corner of his eye, Ross saw one of the red banners fall. It was quickly hoisted up again, and brought back into the third rank, where it was safe.
Casualties seemed even to Fitzjohn, it was a case of who lost their nerve first and ran. A few men running would send the rest flying. That could not happen.
“Hold firm Hold Firm” he hacked and slashed at the blue soldiers, snarling like a madman. A Frenchman lunged at him; he parried the blow and stabbed the man in the neck. The man behind him did not step forward into his place. Instead he turned and ran. The men next to him, seeing their comrade flee, also ran. Just as Fitzjohn had hoped, the enemy had lost their nerve first. The rout snowballed and soon the French battle line was in full flight. He saw some men about to chase the routing French.
“Hold position A pox on any man who chases” he could not give up the high ground. Fitzjohn turned, heading back to the command position to find out how the rest of the battle was going.
“We beat them back Rob We beat them” Style was elated.
“They might not even come back.” Ross did not believe this, not for a second, but he had to keep Style from panicking.
“Line will move back five paces.” Said the officer, repeating the orders he had just been given. Although they could still see the bodies of their comrades and enemies, they needn’t stand on them, so the line was moving back. Ross and Style turned and shuffled back, hearing the worse educated soldiers counting the steps aloud on their fingers.
“THE BAGGAGE TRAIN? THEY’RE LOOTING THE BAGGAGE TRAIN?” Fitzjohn’s face was a most unhealthy shade of deep purple. “WELL TELL THEM TO GET THEIR ARMOURED BACKSIDES BACK HERE. NOW” the cavalry officer, in his infinite cavalryman’s wisdom, was miles away, looting the French tents and wagons. Damn him. Damn the cavalry. Damn everything. Climbing back onto his horse, he saw the French; now back at the bottom of the valley. The crossbows and longbows had long run out of arrows and bolts, and the lines of spear were slowly reforming, far back from the lines. If only he had the cavalry, Fitzjohn could charge downhill, routing the crossbowmen and cavalry, who would then rout the spearmen, again. The battle would be over in minutes. But his only horses were himself and his bodyguards. He stared at the Welshmen, taking off their bows and empty quivers, sitting down on the grass. The Welshmen They don’t have armour to slow them down, and we can catch the armoured crossbowmen easily Yes, he would turn the bowmen into a scratch light infantry unit. He would have preferred Highlanders, those tough clansmen. Oh, for a few hundred clansmen
“Langland Tell those idle Welshmen,” he gestured at the bowmen sitting on the grass, “to leave their bows, quivers, and anything else they use for archery. Swords and round-shields only.”
“Sir?” Langland did not understand
“They’re going to charge.”
“Charge, Sir?”
“Yes Charge, Langland”
“Sir.” Langland gave in, “LONGBOWS, DROP ARCHERY EQUIPMENT. SWORDS AND SHIELDS ONLY”
“Eh? What’s happening, Rob?”
“I don’t know laddy. I don’t know.”
“Company, loose formation. Let the Welshmen through.” The order was passed along the line, and a low murmur spread down the line.
“The bowmen, Rob?” Ross simply shrugged, and took his two paces right before facing forwards again. Style, who now understood he wouldn’t get an answer, did the same.
“Bowmen, on me Charge” Fitzjohn and his bodyguards galloped down the hill, not even looking back to see if the bowmen were following. They needn’t have bothered, anyway. The bowmen, confused by the orders as they were, were running down the hill, looking menacing. About the first time I’ve ever seen a Welshman look menacing, let alone hundreds of them thought Fitzjohn as he levelled his cavalryman’s lance, ready for the charge. He and his bodyguards were far in front of the bowmen. But by the time the Frenchy had reacted to my charge, those Welshmen would have arrived. The spearmen behind closed and began to run down the hill. What? That wasn’t what I told Langland Damn him to hell
“Line will charge” the officer shouted, once again merely the messenger, the relay from senior officers to men. Oh, but to be a general He thought as the men began to jog down the hill.
“We’re off, sonny” Ross was still confused as to the bowmen, but it felt good to be the one acting, rather than reacting. He jogged, trying to avoid the bodies that lay where the French attack had been. Style was looking sick. Getting past the bodies, they saw the general’s men strike the line of crossbowmen.
Fitzjohn thrust his lance at the nearest crossbowman, skewering him. The lance splintered. Damn He unsheathed his sword, hacking to the left and right of his horse. A Frenchman aimed his crossbow, with a bolt he had found on the ground at Fitzjohn, and fired. But the bowstring was damp, and the bolt did not fire. Dropping the unwieldy crossbow, the man scrabbled for his dagger. Fitzjohn snarled, and slashed at his throat. The man fell. Stabbing another, he twisted the blade free as the Welshmen arrived. The crossbowmen wavered, then ran.
The spearmen were not far behind the bowmen, and soon the battle line had reformed, spear then bow, ready to meet the cavalry. Except they didn’t.
Fitzjohn had the initiative; he had to press the charge home. His men hacked at the fleeing crossbowmen.
“Knights To me” the bodyguards soon reformed. “Their general Twenty gold pieces to the man who kills him” he put his exhausted horse into a last gallop, whispering to it “Just this one more, Copenhagen, then you can rest.” The French general (What was his name? Lord Stephan de somewhereorother) and his bodyguards were up ahead. As he closed, he saw the cavalry arrive from the baggage train, straight into the fleeing spearmen and crossbowmen. That’s the one thing they can do right, he reflected, chase down routing troops. And people call them chivalrous He closed with the French general’s men, again hacking left and right. However, the French lord turned out to have nothing to back up the tough words he had sent the previous month. He and his men turned and fled, and he saw one of his men cut down a knight with a plume in his helmet. Damn. I’d hoped to kill the man myself, save the expense. That’s twenty pieces gone.
Fitzjohn dismounted in front of the men, walking along the line of spears, rapping his knuckles on their breastplates.
“You did well today, men. The glory of the crown and the army is preserved” he reached to end of the front row of spears, and walked past the others to the bowmen behind “And you lot did reasonably well, too. I’m pleased.” a cheer broke out among the ranks of Welshmen.
“Hey, he rapped his knuckles on me breastplate, Rob And yours, too” Style was ecstatic.
“Aye, he did. Said we did well. He may be a rich bugger, an’ he may have the temper of a rabid wolf, but I like that Baron Fitzjohn. Brave rich bugger.”
*EDIT* had to put in italics for the thoughts
*EDITY EDIT* am the king of typoes...
