The Immortal Knight Chronicles Box Set 2

by Dan Davis

  On our right, the enemy column came galloping up the hill toward our archers. The dense hawthorn hedge on that flank was broken only by a gap so narrow that no more than five riders abreast could make it through at once.

  Our archers began shooting.

  As the French squeezed through the gap, the arrows smashed into them causing terrible damage. Still, their armour protected many of them and they came on through the hedge and opened out into a wider front and, horses blowing, they readied to charge.

  Salisbury ordered his men forward to meet them and our men-at-arms, hundreds of them, stepped rapidly forward with their visors down and their polearms raised. The French charged into them and our men hacked at the riders and horses with their long-handled hammers and axes and the enemy thrust with their lances.

  My lord the Earl of Suffolk had his blood up and he rode down to the archers shouting at them to advance on the right and shoot into the flanks while he and his men guarded them.

  The French assault was overwhelmed. So many fell, and yet they fought on.

  Until they fled.

  The assault on our right collapsed and they rode away while our men cheered and hurled insults after them. A few archers kept up shooting at the backs of the men riding away, taking down a handful more horses, until they were ordered to stop. So many dead and wounded French lay on the hillside in front of us. Some of the archers walked out to them until the Marshals of the army roared at them to get back into their formations.

  “Why can’t they grab a bit of loot, sir?” Rob asked.

  “The battle has barely begun.”

  “Killed hundreds of them,” Walt said.

  “And here come thousands more,” I said.

  For the first proper assault was coming toward us across the rolling hills. They came on in good order, on foot, in all their glory. The banner at the centre of them all was that of the Dauphin. He was just eighteen years old and leading the vanguard, as our own prince had done at Crecy aged just sixteen. But their prince, the Dauphin, was a weak little streak of piss and ours was a damned hero.

  When their well-ordered lines came to the hedge, they had to break up and come through the gaps to get to us. Once again, our archers unleashed a storm of iron and steel on them. Many fell, some dead, more wounded, as they emerged from those gaps.

  But still they came on.

  Thousands of French men-at-arms assaulted our lines. They fought us for hours. And a hard fight it was.

  When they could make no headway against us, they retreated back down the hill.

  Our men wanted to chase them away but we knew we had resisted but a portion of their army and our keenest men were held back.

  Only later did we discover that the Dauphin was then spirited away from the battle. Some said it was on the orders of the King of France but in truth it was the actions of Jean de Clermont and the other conspirators who wished to place the young and weak Dauphin on the throne. The Duke of Orleans followed the Dauphin from the field, as did the Count of Anjou and the Count of Poitiers. And they took the entirety of the second line of battle with them. Thousands of French soldiers under the command of those men marched right off the field and away into France, abandoning their king to his fate.

  A shocking, treasonous betrayal.

  It cost the French a third of their army but still they had their third battle, the rearguard, commanded by King John himself and it was large enough by itself to match our entire army.

  They came forward to the roar of trumpets and drums, his men shouting and cheering as they came.

  “This lot seem keen,” Walt said.

  They held the King’s banner aloft and beside it was the unfurled Oriflamme. The sacred, inspiring, red banner of the King of France since the days of Charlemagne which declared that no quarter was to be given.

  Beside that was the banner of Geoffrey de Charny.

  “Our enemy is with the French King,” I called to my men.

  John Chandos heard me shouting but misunderstood my words. “By God, Richard. We do not wish to kill King John.”

  “Shut your idiot mouth, Chandos. There will be a cold day in Hell before I need your battlefield advice.”

  The trumpets sounded over and over and the men beneath them roared like the sea in a storm. Their armour shone in an array of blue, gold, red, and silver. A riot of colour across the front.

  They were keen. And they had every right to be. That third battle was filled with the finest knights in France.

  And they were fresh.

  We had been fighting for hours and our men leaned on their weapons or sat on the churned ground. Men breathed heavily and drank whatever last dregs could be found and ate any morsels their men had hidden away. Fighting saps the energy from your limbs. A minute feels like an hour. Two hours can finish a man for days. And yet our toughest test was coming.

  Before the French knights came their crossbowmen. Hundreds and hundreds, perhaps thousands. Unlike at Crecy, these men held their enormous shields aloft as they came forward and so protected themselves from the arrows of our men. Our archers unleashed their arrows but they hit only wood and steel. Our men’s volleys slowed until they all but stopped.

  “Out of arrows, sir,” Rob said.

  I ignored him, keeping my eyes fixed on de Charny’s banner. Like the Oriflamme and the King’s banner, it was at the rear of the advancing French lines. I would have to smash through hundreds of knights without being swarmed by their number. Unless, I thought, unless I can come at them from the rear.

  “Send for our horses,” I said to Walt. “Take our men to the rear.” I left them and pushed further to the centre. “Your Grace!” I shouted, shoving my way through the masses of men toward him. “Sire. They are held here. Fixed here. Horsemen can get around to their rear.”

  The Prince ordered the Captal de Buch to take fifty men from the reserve and whatever mounted archers had arrows around the right flank into the rear.

  I turned to go with him and the Prince shouted at me. “You will remain, Richard.”

  “Fifty men will do nothing,” I said, scowling. “I am taking my company, mounted, to charge the Oriflamme.”

  “You will not!” he shouted.

  “I am going to kill de Charny. If you have any sense in your fat head you will send every man you can with me.”

  I turned and pushed my way through the men as the lords of England shouted their disapproval.

  “To me, men,” I called to my company. “Mount your horses. De Charny is there, do you see his banner? He holds the Oriflamme. We will kill any man who stands in our way, whether he be French, Gascon, or English. Whether he be knight, lord, or king. For Thomas! For Hugh! For the White Dagger!”

  My men roared and I led them along the rear of our lines, throwing clods of earth as we galloped, sending archers scurrying and cursing us. At our farthest flank I turned to the north and rode on beyond the French. My men, not the finest riders and not on the finest horses, caught up with me. “There!” I said, pointing to the distant banners. “We stop for no man. Unfurl the banner! Get it aloft.”

  My great war banner was raised. The white dagger on the red field with golden flame reaching up.

  “Death!” I shouted. “Death!”

  My men shouted with me and we rode along the rear of the French lines to the centre, where the King’s bodyguard turned to meet us. They were on foot and as our charge faltered, they surged around us. My horse was struck and he stumbled.

  “De Charny! The Lord of Hell is here,” I shouted. “Hell has come for you!”

  My horse was killed and I threw myself off, stumbling into the arms of my archers Watkyn and Osbert, who pushed me upright again.

  We cut our way through the masses, my men fighting like lions. Like demons.

  My sword was yanked from my grasp and I took a mace from another man before smiting him with it. It was hot beyond belief in my armour. The sounds of clashing arms and men’s cries filled my head. I was struck with weapons and g
auntleted hands grasped at my shoulders, my helm. Pole weapons were shoved, unseen, between my legs, as enemies tried to trip me. Falling even once could very well mean death.

  They were so many and my men were swarmed by French bodies. It was chaos. I saw Hal Brampton, my sturdy man-at-arms, go down under a dozen men and their daggers worked their way through his armpits and groin. His visor was pulled open and they stabbed him in his eyes and face until his screams stopped.

  Osmund was overrun by my side and before I could reach him, he was borne away by masses of enemies. I cried out for Walt but I had no idea where he was. One of my archers, Lambert, stumbled in front of me. He had lost his helm and had a torrent of blood gushing from his skull.

  “Get to the rear,” I shouted at him. “I will restore you later.”

  He nodded and took one step away before a heavy bladed glaive swung down from nowhere and hewed his head in two down to the neck.

  I was shoved forward, blows ringing on my back and shoulders. Enemies were all around me and I did not know if any friends remained. Had my entire company been killed or lost? It seemed as though I would never reach the French King. Never reach de Charny and the Oriflamme. Never kill the black knight.

  And the English mounted knights came. Finally, the Prince had sent them after all and they smashed into the rear of King John’s men, knocking down knights and squires and spearing them with their lances. The press of men was suffocating.

  I surged forward, throwing enemy knights down before me. I hammered my mace into the King’s standard bearer and he fell, along with the King’s great banner.

  “De Charny!”

  He was there, with the pole of the Oriflamme in hand, striking down English knights like wheat. Finally, my enemy was before me.

  His two men beside him were immortals also, their inhuman strength undeniable and irresistible.

  I killed the first one, crashing my mace down on his shoulder until my weapon broke. I wrapped my arm around him while he hammered at my helm with his sword and I worked my dagger through the tattered mail beneath his armpit and through his ribs into his lung. I swirled it around, opening the wound and working my way toward his heart. His knees sagged and he fell against me. Reaching down, I tore off his helm, ready to stab him in the eyes.

  It was Rudolph de Rohan. A lord who I had once held in my grasp before sending him back to his lord Clermont.

  “You,” I said, breathing heavily.

  He had deceived me and I had let him go. I had never considered that he would have fought as a squire to a mere knight. But what did such things mean to immortals? I had been a fool again. I had wrought so much destruction and killed so many but I had still not killed enough.

  Seeing me distracted, Rohan thrust up with his sword and it slid inside the armour of my right arm, cutting me deeply. Enraged, I stabbed him in the head and bore him to the ground.

  Blood poured from my arm, soaking my sword-hand.

  A cry of warning alerted me to the incoming blow but I managed no more than to see it coming and lean away.

  A poleaxe hit me flush on the breastplate. The inhuman force knocked me onto my back and I could not breathe, nor see.

  It was not a blow from a mortal man.

  De Charny was on me. I got my arms up as he swung his poleaxe again down onto my head. The haft on it had broken and he gripped it close to the head of it, striking hard against my helm, my gauntlets, and my breastplate. Such force and fury that I could not block the blows, nor grasp the weapon or the man. I rolled to the side to get up but his weight and strength bore me down and he struck me so that my world turned dark.

  It was suddenly bright.

  My visor was gone and de Charny kneeled over me with his arms raised, the massive steel polearm over his head. I reached my hands up. Pieces of steel from my gauntlets were hanging down from the ragged leather gloves.

  He was dragged away.

  I climbed to my knees in time to see Rob twist de Charny’s helm off his head before holding him down with his archer’s strength, magnified by his immortal power.

  And Walt sawed Geoffrey de Charny’s head from his shoulders with a broken sword, crying out in an animal roar at the barbaric brutality of it.

  I staggered forward as Walt lifted de Charny’s severed head. The eyes were open for a moment and it seemed as though they focused on me in rage and in horror, just for a moment, before the eyes rolled back and the lids closed.

  “My dear fellows,” I said, hearing the emotion and exhaustion in my voice as I spoke. “Walt. Rob.” I could say no more, overcome with the knowledge that they had saved me. Both men seemed to be in as bad a condition as I was and yet they stood and grasped my arms and grinned with me.

  The King of France fought on with his youngest son, a lad named Philip. Almost all of his bodyguards had fallen. The English could have killed the King easily but they shouted at him to surrender and yanked his weapons away from him. A great press of English and Gascon men-at-arms pushed in on him but King John would not submit. The crowd about him were furious.

  My wounds were painful and I wanted to drink blood. But I could see that he was going to get ripped apart and that was no way to treat a king.

  “Everybody back!” I shouted in English. “Get back from him you bloody filthy dogs!”

  A few parted and I pushed into the front of the crowd.

  “Why do you not surrender, my lord?” I shouted in French, my voice carrying above all others.

  “I shall surrender only to a knight,” he shouted back. “As will my son.”

  “I am a knight,” I said. “I swear it to God.”

  The crowd around us quietened as they watched.

  He hesitated and then pulled off one of his gauntlets and held it out to me. I stepped forward and bowed as I took it in my left hand. I must have looked quite a sight. My armour dented and hanging off me. Blood streaming from beneath what remained.

  “You are my prisoner. You shall be safe. Have no fear.”

  “My son also,” King John said, and pulled the young Prince to his side.

  “He’s mine!” someone shouted behind me and surged forward to grab the King from me.

  Another voice from the other side shouted. “He’s mine!”

  Then they all began shoving forward and I pushed back their grasping hands. Walt appeared by my side, and Rob also, slapping at the greedy bastards as they tried to take my prize from me.

  King John raised his voice, though it shook as he spoke. “I am a great enough lord to make you all rich!”

  We pushed against them. “Get off him, you faithless dogs!”

  And then the Earl of Warwick and his men, all mounted, pushed through the crowd.

  “Stand back on pain of death!” Warwick’s men shouted. “On pain of death, I say!” Their swords were drawn.

  The crowd backed away.

  “You, too, Hawkedon,” Warwick said.

  “The King has surrendered to me,” I said. “He is my prisoner and in my care.”

  Warwick sneered. “I will be damned before I allow you into the presence of the Prince ever again. Step back.”

  I recalled how I had spoken to Prince Edward and the great lords of the realm. It was a breach that I could never repair. And I realised I did not want to do so. It was irrelevant. My enemy was dead.

  “I pledged to protect you and I have. The Earl of Warwick is an honourable man who will keep you safe. You and your son.”

  I bowed and stepped back while Warwick and his men dismounted, bowed low before King John and took him away. The men-at-arms, deprived of the riches and the spectacle, turned back to find other prisoners and to loot the bodies of the fall all around us.

  “Walt,” I said, “Rob. Where are the others?”

  Rob hung his head. “Dead, sir.”

  “Hal? Osmund? I saw Watkyn fighting at the end, surely he is not dead?”

  “All of them,” Walt said.

  Rob looked me in the eye. “To a man.”


  “Good God Almighty,” I said, looking at the sky. “We must bury them.”

  My men had been spent in breaking through the French centre. Without their immortal strength and veteran skill, the battle could yet have swung in the favour of the French. Each of my men had fought and killed a dozen, a score, of enemy knights. They had helped me to cut a swathe deep into the royal retinue, bringing me to our immortal enemy. They had paid for my revenge, and the Prince’s great victory, with their lives.

  We buried Hal, Osmund, Lambert, Watkyn, Osbert, Randulf, Jake, and Stan. I said my prayers over them and gave them my thanks. Also, I gave thanks to God and humbly requested that He take care of my men. So many, I had sent to Him, both friends and foes, over the long years.

  All told, the Prince’s army lost no more than fifty men-at-arms and a few hundred archers and spearmen. There were hundreds of wounded, though, and every man who stood was exhausted beyond measure.

  Well after the battle, I heard about the French losses from the heralds. Two-and-a-half thousand men-at-arms were struck dead on the field. Their armour and wealth was well stripped by the end of the day and, without coats of arms to go by, the heralds had difficulty identifying the bodies.

  As well as Geoffrey de Charny, his ally the lord Jean de Clermont was killed and scores of other great lords and nobles. We took three thousand prisoners, including fourteen counts, twenty-one barons, and fourteen hundred knights. Marshals of France, Archbishops, the leaders of the kingdom, all were in our hands. Each one would be ransomed for a fortune.

  But that was not for us.

  Just before sundown, I led Walt and Rob to the top of the hill by the wood. Our brothers had been killed. We were exhausted and hurt. They wanted blood so I gave them each some of mine. Enough for them to recover. My arm was hurt but I would live so I could wait.

  “How many times is it that you have saved my life now, Walter?”

  He smiled. “A few, sir.”