by Dan Davis
“We have to finish them,” Thomas said to me. “Now, before they escape.”
I was surprised to hear him, a Frenchman originally from a place not far to the south, near Paris, urging us to kill his countrymen. But then Thomas had been amongst the English for almost a hundred years and a century was enough time to turn even a Frenchman sensible.
“Yes, yes,” John said, “now is the time.”
His good-hearted squire Hugh raised his axe above his head. “Let us kill the damned bastards.”
That surprised me even more but then the reasons for their passion became clearer. I recalled how they and their brother Templars had been persecuted by a French king. It had been almost forty years since we had rescued John and Hugh from execution at the hands of the fourth King Philip, and it was that king’s nephew, Philip VI who we faced across the battlefield that day.
Thomas especially wished we had saved more Templars but John and Hugh were all we could manage. To save their lives, I had granted them the Gift of my blood and we had welcomed both into the Order of the White Dagger.
John had been a very fine addition to the Order. He was a well-made young man, well-spoken and chivalrous. He retained his vows of poverty and chastity, so he claimed at least, and I had never met a man who did not like him. As a man often disliked by my peers, it was a wonder to me.
Hugh was a born follower but there was nothing wrong with that. Almost every man on Earth is the same and he was skilled in war and dutiful in nature.
I pushed my way back toward the King’s massive dragon banner once more and forced my way through the press of men who wished to defend him with their person. A few fellows attempted to stop me but I did not allow them to.
“Your Grace,” I called out when nearing him. “Might we not now mount and drive them off?”
William de Bohun, the Earl of Northampton, answered me. “The command to retrieve the horses has been given, Richard. Do you think we are fools or children who need you to hold our hands? Take yourself back to the fighting where you may be useful.”
A few men about us chuckled. I ignored them all.
“Your Grace? Is that not the standard of King Philip out there at the rear?”
“Of course it is,” Northampton said, irritated. “Are you as blind as the dead King of Bohemia, man?”
More laughter.
“We can kill Philip,” I said, using my battlefield voice. “Or take him, if you prefer. Your Grace.”
The laughter died and the King turned to me. “You will wait until our main charge begins. If you and your men can find a way through, then you may take my cousin the King of France.”
“I will, Your Grace.”
He reached out and grasped my arm as I turned. He leaned in close and I heard him over the terrible din. “God be with you.”
“And with you, sire.”
Northampton spoke up again, aiming his remarks at Edward but speaking loud enough for all about us to hear. “Philip will never surrender himself to a mere knight.”
“Then that will be his choice,” King Edward said, allowing his irritation to show. “Go, now, Richard.”
With a bow of my head and a final glance at the Earl of Northampton, I began to push my way out of the King’s circle and back to my men.
Sir John Chandos clapped an armoured arm around my shoulders. “Richard,” he shouted in my ear. “The King said to take him, yes? He is worth everything alive. Dead, he brings us nothing.”
I liked Chandos. He reminded me of myself. A Derbyshire knight barely above a commoner, he had risen as high as the likes of us could rise. He was about twenty-six or so and yet his tactical ability was evident to those of us who were able to recognise it. I had taken him under my wing when he was younger but now he was reaching the prime of his life and he was growing to consider himself as a greater man than I.
“I will treat Philip as gently as a babe in arms,” I said, pushing Chandos away to arm’s length. “But babies sometimes get dropped on their heads.”
He looked concerned as I turned away but I wanted Chandos to know that his patronising advice was unwelcome.
When I returned to my company, I dragged our wide-eyed pages to me and shouted for them to bring our horses up immediately.
“We join the counter charge?” Thomas asked.
“The King has issued a command to me. This company will follow close behind the counter charge in the centre. When the lines clash, we shall punch our way through and we shall take King Philip in the name of Edward.”
“My God,” John said, a grin forming across his face.
“Rob?” I called to the leader of my archers. “You will stay close behind us, save your arrows if you can. When we reach the banner of the King of France, you may kill the horses of the King and his bodyguard. But please, Mister Hawthorn, do not murder a king this evening.”
Rob nodded. “We’ll give you dead horses, Sir Richard.”
I have always appreciated the simplicity of the lower classes.
Darkness was falling and we were running out of time to complete our victory. The haste with which hundreds of horses were brought forward was impressive and was a testament to the fact that the professionalism of our army extended from top to bottom. My company mounted just as the first line of English cavalry formed and charged at the French. They were themselves readying for yet another desperate and foolhardy charge at us, no doubt because they witnessed the relative disorder in our lines as the horses were brought up.
“Stay together. Stay under our banner. And take no man but Philip.” I urged my men before closing my visor.
We were going to capture a king.
4. The Black Knight
It was wonderful to be mounted again. To rise up above the heads of men on foot and so see that much further. Feeling the power of the animal beneath me and the mass of those beside me as we advanced behind the English men-at-arms. They smashed into the French and the sound of metal clashing echoed through the dusk. Banners waved everywhere and rallying cries filled the air as groups of men were broken apart before desperate attempts to reform.
All the while, I kept my sight fixed upon the banner of Philip; a vivid blue covered in countless emblems of the bright yellow fleur-de-lis.
Beside it was the Oriflamme itself, the ancient and holy battle standard of the French crown. Bright red and unadorned but long and narrow, with two enormous streamers doubling its length and flown from a gilded lance. Flying it over the battlefield meant that no quarter was to be given, echoing the orders of Edward for the English.
I aimed directly at those banners and, after ensuring that Thomas, John, Hugh, Walt, Ralf, and Simon were with me, I forced our way through the press of men and horse until we reached Philip’s companions and bodyguard.
Touchingly, there remained some levies of townsfolk on foot about the French king and they were being cut to pieces even as the lords and knights of France turned and fled from everywhere else on the field.
Our advance was halted by a line of beautifully armoured men on enormous horses. They looked like they had been untouched by the fighting and I meant to change that forthwith. As we clashed with them, a few arrows slipped by me to hammer into the flesh of the French horses. The man before me struggled to control his maddened destrier and I shoved him sideways from his saddle, sending him down into the deep shadows between the horses.
I pushed through deeper and found myself surrounded on all sides, though it was increasingly difficult to tell. Men were losing the breath necessary to shout through their visors and the growing darkness was dulling heraldic colours and designs.
But I could see King Philip clearly now.
He looked magnificent and I was thrilled to be so close to him. To be the one to capture him would be a great honour.
We were close, and his men were falling all around him. When a gap opened up, my archers hit his horse with a volley of arrows, some slipping through its protective coverings and it went down, taking the King w
ith him. A cry went up from both sides and we heaved forward against the mass of men protecting him but they pushed back at us with equal ferocity. In mere moments, Philip was up on a fresh horse and his men took up their battle cry with renewed vigour.
“Montjoie Saint Denis!”
While the English, including Thomas and John behind me, roared for Saint George.
I hacked and shoved further in, closer and closer to Philip. My armour received terrible punishment and my entire body would be a mass of deep bruises in the morning unless I could sup on a goodly amount of blood after the battle.
And that was when I saw him.
A French knight hacking his way toward me. He wore black over his old-fashioned armour and he was followed by a handful of men-at-arms also in black.
One of the pair of squires bore a banner of plain black with no emblem or image upon it. He threw down the English who stood against him with such ease that I was astonished to see it.
Philip used the opportunity to begin to withdraw and, seeing this, I shouted at my men to bring him down. My command was passed back to my archers who loosed a volley at the group of bodyguards. A roar went up. Philip had an arrow shaft jutting from a gap in his visor and his new horse was also wounded and both man and rider fell.
Good God, I thought, we have killed the King of France.
But they pulled him up and cheered as they helped him to mount a third horse. The mass of loyal men dragged the mounted King away toward safety.
As the French pulled back, space was created and the fighting intensified at once. The knight with the black banner swung his polearm at Thomas and knocked my friend senseless on the back of his horse.
John shouted and jabbed at the attacker with a broken lance. The man-at-arms bearing the black banner whirled his hammer down on Walt’s horse’s head with such force that the animal was killed. It dropped like a stone, throwing Walt down with it. John’s lance was ripped from his grasp and tossed spinning over the heads of the riders swirling behind.
Hugh rushed in with his axe and smashed the breastplate of the black knight, who reeled from the blow before returning one of his own with such speed and power that it crashed against Hugh’s helm. He fell to his knees, dazed or dead.
Such strength was inhuman. I could barely believe what I was seeing but there it was.
These men were surely immortals.
Charging my horse at them, I raised my weapon and thrust it at the squire with the black banner. I noted his red shield with three white escutcheons hanging from his shoulder. It seemed familiar but I had no time to think on it as, somehow, he swiped my attack away with the head of his hammer and struck me on the shoulder so quickly I did not see the blow coming.
Instinct caused me to lean away and so the rising backhanded blow merely clipped the top of my conical helm rather than hit me clean on the side of the head. Even so, it knocked me momentarily senseless.
I was falling.
The bastards had struck my horse and he was dropping.
When I looked up, the three men-at-arms beneath the black banner were riding away after the King.
John helped Hugh to his feet but he was unsteady indeed, despite the immortal blood in his veins.
“Get after them!” I shouted at my company.
“King Philip?” Thomas asked, lifting his visor and peering about, clearly still dazed from the blow to his head.
“The knight with the black banner!” I shouted, pointing with my weapon. “And his squires.”
My archers were mounted on all kinds of horses but mostly hobbies that would not fare well when fighting through the mad swirling cavalry before us, of both sides. I watched John force his horse forward and raise his sword above his head.
“Saint George!” John cried with primal harshness. He was outraged that they had so wounded Hugh, who was very dear to John. He was an honourable man.
John was the finest horsemen of us all and mounted on the biggest, strongest destrier. He could force his way ahead through the crowd while I brought up the company.
I lifted my visor and raised my voice. “John, hear me. Get after him, John. Slow him down, if you can. Yet be wary.”
“Wary?” John cried, with outrage in his voice.
I reached across and grasped John’s arm. “You can see that he is one of us, John, do you not see it? In receipt of the Gift. One of William’s creations. His squires also.”
“Of course they are,” John snapped, still angry, before calming himself somewhat. “I will stop him, Richard.”
“We are taking the knight of the black banner and his men,” I called to my company. “Twenty marks to the man who takes one alive. Ten for each one dead.”
They all roared their approval and we chased them through the battlefield. A handful of my archers, the best riders, pulled ahead of us. They wanted the money and they wanted the glory, too.
The sun had set and it was almost full night but there was just enough light to see by, though my vision was severely limited by my visor. I could just make out John and a couple of archers racing ahead of me, taking their own paths through the chaos in pursuit of our quarry.
The black banner was still held aloft by the small group fleeing amongst the rest and yet almost all the banners began to look similarly dark. I forced myself to clamp my eyes upon the one I wanted and trusted my horse and my instinct to avoid whatever came in front of us.
Likewise, I had to trust that enough of my company remained with me. As far as I was concerned, my archers were worth their weight in silver, for they could bring down a knight in armour with a well-placed arrow to the man’s horse. I prayed to God that we would catch them before they escaped.
Years, I had searched for William’s hidden immortals and now I had three of them almost within my grasp. I could barely contain the passion rising in my throat and I roared a wordless cry. It was echoed by my men behind me, crying for Saint George and some calling my name as their war-cry. It stirred my heart greatly to hear it.
We were charged in the flank by a group of knights from Hainault. Their shouts and the drumming of their horse’s hooves filled the air at the same moment they hit my company. I avoided the lance aimed for me but a charging horse’s shoulder collided with my destrier’s head and neck and we were knocked quite desperately aside. It is a wonder my magnificent animal did not fall and instead we recovered, wheeled about and charged into the affray. I assume they believed we were in pursuit of King Philip for, after only a short engagement to delay us, they fell back and rode away.
It was growing difficult to see anything at all but I hurried on, with ever fewer of my men behind me.
“John!” I called, lifting my visor. “John!” The noise of the battle was growing ever quieter but still I barely made out his answering cry from up ahead.
An isolated farmhouse appeared before us. The structure and the building around it had formed some sort of nexus for the fleeing Frenchmen, perhaps seeking to hide overnight or to use the structures to mount some kind of defence against their pursuers. And the English had swarmed here, the foolish ones perhaps expecting to find food and the more experienced--aware that the place would likely have been commandeered by some lord before or during the battle—looking for wealth they could carry away.
I lifted my visor again and left it up so I could see better in the darkness.
Men shouted and fought all around. A pair of men even struggled high up on the thatched roof, grappling and sliding down the sides. They could have been men of either side, perhaps fighting to the death over a ring or a chicken. There was madness in the air already when I saw a flash of yellow and turned to see a man attempting to fire the barn.
In the light of the growing fire, I saw the black knight.
I saw so much in a single instant.
Far across the yard, the figures like ravens against the flame. On the ground, bodies writhed and died.
The black knight’s helm was gone but he was silhouetted against the fire and I c
ould make out no features.
But I knew it was him, for he held a grown man aloft in his hands as if his victim weighed no more than a rag doll.
And it was John that he held in his grasp. John was also without his helm and indeed his armour seemed to hang off him in tatters, with buckles and straps hanging down.
My friend and companion struggled to free himself but he was dripping with blood from injuries elsewhere on his body.
The black knight brought John’s neck to his mouth with a savage jerk and began drinking from what must have been a gaping wound. He pulled back, tearing a long strand of skin and flesh and blood with it. As he did so, John let out a terrible, mournful cry.
I rode blindly toward the knight, determined to destroy this monster, to smite him with a single mighty blow. The rage filled me.
Something hit me in the face.
Then I was falling, the flames and silhouetted figures twisting as I tumbled to the ground.
Even as I crashed into the compacted earth and the pain hit me, I had a dreadful realisation of what must have happened.
As if I was some impetuous young fool in his first campaign, I had left my visor up as I attacked.
And a crossbow bolt had hit me in the face.
The shaft jutted from my cheek and hot blood gushed into my throat and I was wracked by coughing. Crawling on all fours, I had to hang my head down to let the blood pour out of my face rather than fill my throat and drown me. My eyes streamed so that it was hard to see and I groaned, unable to speak. Still, I got to my feet and stepped forward into the blurred streaks of shadow and flame.
“Sir Richard!”
Friendly voices surrounded me and hands were on me.
I recognised the voice of Black Walter, the commoner who was not an immortal and who did not know anything about the existence of the Gift, or the Order. But he was strong and did not know hesitation.
“Walt? Pull this bolt from my face!” At least, so I tried to speak but instead it came out as a series of grunts and ended in wet coughing.
Frustrated, I grabbed the slippery bolt in my fist and began to draw it out.
