Based loosely on a custom battle I did recently, just to see how hard Lancers are...
Incident at Alcaniz
The knight’s footstep’s echoed in the great hall, sweltering still in the evening sun. He was tired and bruised, his armour bearing streaks of blood and sweat.
He knelt, knee plates clanking, his sword resting on the floor with a soft clatter.
The king spoke quietly.
‘Rise, Don Francesco, rise. Your scouting report tells me you met with victory, then why so downcast? Has the chivalry of Spain become tired of war while Moors yet hold our ancient lands?’
The knight did not respond to his king’s gentle jest.
‘Sire, I bring you the full account of a victory, it is true, yet also a tragedy which has little bearing upon the kingdom, but is of infinite personal grief to me.’
‘Ah…you cannot mean…?’
The king gazed compassionately upon the bowed and bearded head of his bravest knight.
‘Steward, bring him wine, and let him tell all.’
The knight drank deep, gasping, then toyed idly with the cup as though distracted. At length, as the hush grew amid the crowded hall, he began to speak.
‘Lord, as you know, three days ago I took a force of our best lancers south, to scout the Ebro valley towards Valencia. One the second day, we heard that a party of local scouts had seen smoke rising the southwest, so we rode that way, stopping only to eat and drink and see to our horses. The scouts joined us, some of them armed as jinettes. I thought they would be useful, as we were entering disputed territory and might be ambushed. I did not do more than glance at them, however, though some wore badges from the areas close to my home. Many of them wore veils of cloth across their faces to protect them from the sun. Madonna, had I only walked among them, I would have known…!’
The knight paused, wiped a trembling hand across his eyes. Gripping his sword, he seemed to draw strength from it.
‘My apologies sire, I will speak of it later. We rode to the village of Alcaniz, what they had left of it. People we found, none alive save an old man, dying. He told us that Moors had come with the sunrise and plundered and slain. Barely had he died than we saw them, their mail glittering in the morning sun, smoke in our faces hiding their numbers. I gave the orders, we mounted and donned our full armour, hurrying and sweating, the squires arming the horses as well. I ordered my men into line beyond the village, on the plain, three lines with twenty paces in between. We had fear, yes, and doubt, for the unbelievers had perhaps three hundred men, well mounted and rested, confident. I had two hundred, and now forty light horse. These I sent wide, to the flanks amid the scrub, for they would not be of much use in the fight ahead.
So we formed, and they formed opposite, their ranks wider than ours. I ordered the banners raised, lances couched, and we went forward at the trot, sweat and dung and leather reeking in the air, hearts beating and mouths dry…I felt sure we could break them, felt the hate become fury as it always does before the clash.
Hearing their horns wailing, now but a hundred yards away, I saw their horses begin the charge. I stood in my stirrups and cried our battlecry, sire, with all my strength ‘Santiago and the Virgin! The Crown of Aragon!’
And so we charged, in one mass, as one body, we bore down upon them and in the deafening crash of arms we broke their line in the centre, right upon the filthy banner of their emir. None could withstand us. I saw the Almohad banner trampled beneath the hooves of my charger as I turned, spirit soaring, sword out, cleaving Moors and horses alike, blood in my eyes…our flanks had not been turned, but the right was in trouble, only the fact that my best squadron was placed there had saved us, for they were hemmed in, their charge blunted. I gathered my guard about me, seeing in the briefest flash amid the chaos the sight of our scouts charging the enemy flank to aid our left. But for only a moment…I led my guard down upon their left and we broke that too in a frenzy, crying to Jesus and Saint James as we swung sword and axe. They gave at that, fleeing every which way, their horns silent now.
Ah, such bravery fights for Aragon. I am proud to lead it. I turned and saw their right withdrawing in good order, our lancers regrouping. I saw our scouts, only a dozen left, on foot amid the wounded. Bold fools, farmers, they had been slaughtered without armour, without experience. I rode over, ordering a squadron to see the enemy’s remnants form the field.
Dismounting, I saw…ah, I saw a group of men from my own home, clustered around one who lay still. Their faces looked up, flinched as I dragged off my helm, they stepped away. And so I saw the one who lay bleeding, bloody, dead.
It was my brother, come disguised behind a veil. It was Pietro…no warrior, just a wealthy farmer! He had come with his neighbours to relieve the boredom of long day by pretending to be a soldier, like his brother, who has gained fame and honour. But he had found neither, for he was dead, cut down by a Moorish scimitar.
I knelt before all my men, on the field of my victory, and wept, my little brother’s blood mixing with the blood of unknown heathens on my armour, even now as you see it. Such pain I will not know again, I do not think, for before this war I had three brothers, and now I have none.’
Don Francesco stopped speaking, hoarse with grief and effort. In the silence of the chamber, the king spoke.
‘Don Francesco, I grieve with you for every good man of Aragon who falls in defence of Christ. Your brother shall be buried with honours as a warrior, and I shall have masses said for him. Your duty has cost you much grief, and I mourn that I cannot recompense you for it. Take leave of us now, and rest, and I shall see to the details.’
The knight bowed, tears still upon his face.
‘Sire, I thank you for your kindness. I would give all I had to see all Spain free, even my brother who I pray now resides with God. My grief has made me remiss, for here is the tally of the encounter.’
‘Speak on, Don Francesco.’
‘Sire, we counted the bodies of one hundred and thirty four Moors, and lost seventy-six of our own. We found thirty-six enemy wounded also. They suffer the flames of Hell even as I speak, for I would take no prisoners on such a day. And I bring you this, with one request.’
Don Francesco pulled from his pouch a bloody banner, emblazoned with a crescent, and threw it contemptuously on the floor.
‘Their banner, sire.’
The king smiled.
‘That is well done. And the request?’
‘Sire, I beg that it be buried beneath my brother’s coffin, as a reminder that only by blood and sacrifice can we free this land.’
‘It shall be as you desire, my loyal Don Francesco. And three days hence you will lead four hundred lancers south for me, for Aragon, for your brother. The day is coming, and I would ask you never to forget, nor ever despair. Go now and rest, and pray.’
The knight knelt in homage, pride now in his bearing, then strode from the hall, his stride lengthening in vigour, revenge already kindling in his heart. The war would go on…
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