by Mark Acres
“Vengeance!” cried one dull-faced lord, hefting his sword aloft and sadly thrusting it through the roof of the tent. His faux pas went unnoticed; the cry of “Vengeance” was taken up by all, mingled with shouts of “Reparations!”
Dunsford leapt up on the table, ducking his head to avoid the roof of the tent, and gestured for silence.
“That is not all, my lords,” he continued. “This same Ruprecht has sent his own envoys with the following demands.” A hush came over the lords; the demands of the enemy were always important to know. They gave clues to what advantages might be gained in negotiations after a battle when ransoms for prisoners were determined and reparations for acts of injustice were meted out.
“Ruprecht demands full freedom of passage for the armies of Heilesheim through all the territory of this barony,” the count said calmly. The nobles fell stone silent; the first demand was unthinkable. “He further demands,” Dunsford went on, “that collectors of revenue for Heilesheim be installed in each shire of this barony, to collect such taxes, tithes, fees, and entitlements to which he, as the true king of this realm, may declare himself entitled.”
“Never!” shouted one baron. “Invasion and tyranny!” called out a second. In an instant the tent was a seething mass of angry men, mindlessly shouting, banging their weapons, and pounding upon one another with mailed fists. Dunsford allowed this demonstration to continue a bit before raising his arms, as best he could in the cramped space, and calling again for silence.
“My lords, silence! Silence I say! You have not yet heard all!”
“All?” one baron queried. “What more could that impudent usurper, who probably murdered his own brother, ask?”
“Hear me, and I will tell you. Ruprecht, who styles himself King of Heilesheim,” Dunsford said, deliberately pausing for effect, “demands that all lands not belonging to the temples and the lords of the temples but held in fief and liege from the Count of Dunsford, along with their rights, privileges, fees, duties, and titles, be surrendered to the crown of Heilesheim as royal lands in perpetuity.”
Pandemonium erupted in the tent.
From the low hilltop Culdus gazed on the level meadow that stretched for more than a thousand yards before him. In the far distance the crest of a second hill rose; there, he could make out unmistakable signs of the enemy force. Smoke rose in the air from countless cooking fires; little blobs of white against the mottled green and brown of the hillcrest were the tents of enemy lords. The meadow would be a battlefield within a few hours.
The position could not be better, Culdus thought, for his purposes. The little roadway from Shallowford to Dunsford’s main city, Avon, wound through the middle of the meadow. The entire field was only about fifteen hundred yards wide; on the left the marshy banks of a stream that made its way south to the Rigel prevented the movement of troops, and on the right a large uncleared wood blocked any flanking movement.
“A good field for our tactics, Lord General,” commented Viscount Karl of Sudlund, commander of the Fifth Legion that would bear the brunt of the fighting. He stamped his mailed boot on the cold, hard earth. “The ground is solid, making maneuver easy. Our flanks are protected,” he added, pointing to the woods and then the marsh. “The enemy will be in a narrow zone, where we can easily slay them.”
Culdus nodded, pleased. Sudland was one of the few who truly understood the new military system, which would now, after several days’ delay, receive its first real test in battle. It was a good thing that this first test would come under the command of a man who understood and appreciated the system.
Only a few thin wisps of white cloud marked the sunny, pale blue sky. A light breeze stirred, but there was no sign of the accursed rain that had dogged the invasion of Dunsford for the first three days. Even though the schedule of march of the legions had been badly thrown off by the weather, this was a perfect day for battle, Culdus thought.
“Tell me, Karl, how you will proceed,” Culdus said, clapping an arm around the younger noble’s shoulders.
Karl surveyed the field one more time, shading his eyes to study the details of small rises and dips in the ground. He gazed at the enemy encampment on the opposite hill. He removed his mailed gloves, dropped them on the ground, stroked his chin, and then fiddled with the large ebony brooch that formed the clasp of his heavy, dark blue cloak. At length, he drew his longsword, and using it as a pointer, outlined his plan.
“I’ll form the foot soldiers in line by battles,” he began. “The first battle will take the center, with the second in standard formation behind it. The fifth I’ll deploy to the right of the first, the sixth to the left.”
Again, Culdus nodded. He could immediately visualize Karl’s positioning on the field. The foot soldiers would form lines in their “battles” of one thousand men each. Each soldier was armed with an eighteen-foot spear and a shortsword. A full battle formed a line three ranks deep and about three hundred and fifty yards in length. Thus, three battles formed in line, side by side, with about one hundred yards between them for maneuvering room, would just about cover the frontage of the field. An additional battle, the second in Culdus’s numbering system, would be formed up just behind the center of the line. So far, so good.
“What else?” Culdus prompted.
“The third battle in standard blocks behind the second,” Karl responded. Thus, his center would be even deeper. Behind the second battle, a third would be divided in half, with each half formed in a kind of square. One square would be placed behind each flank of the second battle. “The archers will be distributed by hundreds behind the flanking battles to arch fire as the whole advances.”
“And the cavalry?”
Karl laughed. “Yes, my tumultuous lords. They will be held in reserve and can advance at a distance of three hundred yards behind the rest of the legion.”
“And if the enemy charges?”
“We will halt and form the block,” Karl answered immediately.
Culdus was very pleased. This would be a good day for Heilesheim. “The Sixth Legion will be formed in the block behind this hill as a reserve. I doubt you will need it,” Culdus said. “Form your legion and advance at will.”
“Lord General, it shall be done. But what of the king and Valdaimon?”
“Let us pray to our gods that the king and Valdaimon find other amusements today. This is work for soldiers. And Karl,” Culdus cautioned, “mind you mark well the behavior of your mounted lords. The order of the day is, No prisoners.”
Karl nodded his obedience.
Dunsford sighed. Goblets of wine were being hurled across the table in his tent. Four of the assembled lords had already left for the open field outside, there to hack away at one another over injuries to their honor. Shouts, curses, insults, and claims of precedence created a din around the table. It was always this way when it was time to form line of battle. The theory was simple; he would form with his troops in the center. The next lords in ranks would take station to his right and left. The next lower ranks would form to the right and left beyond, and so on.
Sadly, determining order of rank was always a complicated matter. It involved ancestry, conferred titles as opposed to inherited titles, reputation for prowess, performance in battles past, and social rank acquired by marriage. Councils of war always degenerated into name-calling matches, and not infrequently one or two lords would be killed in private duels before the line of battle was ever formed.
“My lords, I beseech you. This bickering over precedence is needless,” Dunsford literally screamed at the assemblage. “It is not important how close you stand to me, but how well you close with the enemy!”
Murmurs of assent momentarily interrupted the shouting matches. Before they could resume, a young page, wearing a rapier and dagger but no armor, dashed into the count’s tent.
“My Lord Count,” he cried, “the scouts report that the enemy advances
!”
“What strength does he show?” Dunsford asked.
“The scouts report more than six thousand, but only a few hundred mounted knights, and those held in reserve,” the page responded.
For an instant Dunsford’s brow wrinkled and his mouth formed a small o. What devilment was this? Only a few hundred knights? Foot soldiers advancing? But there was no time to ponder. Dunsford banged his fist on the table and bellowed his orders.
“Duncan, you will take position on my light. Sir Richard Grier, on my left. The rest of you, where you will. Go to your troops and form line of battle at the crest of this hill, now!”
The nobles, still bickering and casting angry glances at one another, clattered their way out of the tent.
“God of my homeland, grant me victory today,” Dunsford said, his eyes raised to the sunlight that shone through the roof of his tent. The count rose and walked outside. Two servants awaited with his war-horse, and helped him mount.
Behind him, the camp was gradually transformed as his barons formed their troops. Each baron had with him between one hundred to one hundred and fifty men. Of these, ten to twenty were mounted knights; the remainder were men-at-arms, foot soldiers. The knights were armored as best they could afford, and most were armed with heavy lances, supplemented by longswords, or, in some cases, some other preferred weapon, such as a mace, morning star, war hammer, or axe. The men-at-arms were a haphazardly armored and armed lot. Most carried a standard twelve-foot-long spear along with some other weapon, though these varied from fine longswords for the more fortunate to daggers, mallets, or even clubs for the less privileged.
“Form up! Form up!” the count cried, riding along the crest of the hill, waving his great two-handed sword in the air above his head. “The enemy comes!”
As he rode along the hillcrest he could see them advancing across the meadow. Already they were only about eight hundred yards distant and coming on at a slow but steady pace. Never before had Dunsford seen an army advance in such a fashion. These were foot soldiers, but with peculiarly long spears. They were arranged in thin blocks, about three ranks deep, keeping nearly perfect order as they advanced. There were more troops in the center than elsewhere. Behind the main lines were little groups of men that didn’t seem to carry the long spears. Probably archers or slingers, Dunsford guessed. But most peculiar of all was the behavior of the enemy knights. These formed a solid block, three ranks deep, nearly three hundred yards long, that advanced at a very slow walk, hanging far behind the infantry. What kind of knights were these, Dunsford wondered, who allowed infantry the honor of the first attack?
His own army took shape at the crest of the hill. His longtime friend and loyal vassal, Sir Duncan Wright, rode up on his right-hand side. Sir Richard Grier, a younger man of proven prowess in many a minor border dispute, thundered up on a magnificent charger to take his position on Dunsford’ s left. The remainder of the cavalry, some six hundred in all, gradually formed a ragged line that was at times one rank and at times two ranks deep. Behind the cavalry the foot soldiers formed up in irregular masses of spearmen, trying to get into positions somewhere behind and near their respective noble leaders. Pennants snapped in the breeze, revealing a colorful panoply of coats of arms.
“By the gods, what is this insult?” Sir Richard shouted to the count. “They attack with infantry—why? Do they think to tire us and thus avoid capture and ransom payments? Come, let us show these brigands false!” Sir Richard shot out his right arm and his young squire, who would not fight, handed him his great battle lance, a heavy, tapered, pointed twelve-foot shaft of wood coated with metal. Sir Richard raised his lance high in the air.
“No,” Dunsford shouted. “Not yet. We need to think about—”
“For the gods, for the right, and for Dunsford!” Sir Richard screamed at the top of his lungs. His spurs bit into the flanks of his mount, and he was off, charing at the trot toward the slowly approaching enemy mass.
A tremendous shout erupted from Dunsford’s lines. Rider after rider put spur to flank, and in less than half a minute the entire cavalry force was in a ragged charge. Pennants and banners snapped bravely against the pale blue of the cold, clear sky. The foot soldiers scrambled after the horsemen with no order to their ranks. Some waved their spears and shouted; others carried them lowered toward the enemy. A few paused after a hundred yards to catch their breath and let their comrades run on ahead.
Oh well, the count thought as his own steed charged forward, it’s no worse than usual. “For the gods, for justice, and for me!” he called, lowering his own great battle lance. He spurred his mount to a full gallop. He had to overtake Sir Richard; it would never due for a vassal to be the first to make contact with the enemy.
The Viscount Karl of Sudland reined his horse to a halt and craned his neck forward. He held up his right arm, and immediately the drumming, which marked time for the marching ranks of his legion, ended with three heavy beats. As one man, the disciplined men-at-arms halted, their eighteen-foot spears held erect.
By all the gods, Karl thought, old Culdus was right. Everything he taught us was right! The fools are charging! Karl waved his upraised right arm in a broad, circular motion. The drumming began again, this time at a much faster tempo. The two huge battles on either flank of the center turned inward, forming three long lines. The heads of these lines then began a turn toward the rear. In less than a minute, during which time the oncoming enemy cavalry closed to within one hundred yards, the two flanking battles had moved to the very rear of the formation.
The archers, too, had changed position; they were now in the very center of the huge block of spearmen. The two squares in the middle, on the outside of the archers, did a smart change of face so they were facing outward, as did the flanking lines of the front and rear battles. The mass formation now looked like a giant block, with spears pointing outward in all directions except the very rear.
Karl wheeled his horse and galloped to a position at the rear right corner of the block.
“Lower spears!” he shouted. “Fourth battle, arcing fire, by hundreds!”
The long spears were lowered, allowed a clear flight path for the volley of one hundred short arrows that arced from the center of the block into the line of onrushing cavalry. The first flight was followed by another, then another, then another, all within a few seconds.
Dunsford, who rode in the very center of the charge, was only sixty yards from the enemy when the hail of arrows struck the line of charging horses. Two arrows bounced off the barding on his horse, but a third penetrated its right eye, and a fourth plunged into its left flank. The injured animal whinnied wildly and reared. As it did, four more shafts struck it dead-on in the chest. The mighty animal crashed over on its side.
“Aaaahhhhwwww!” The count howled with pain as the full weight of his dying mount crushed his right leg and the hard ground knocked the breath from his lungs. His great lance thudded to the ground beside him and rolled uselessly away. The count cursed his horse and kicked at its back with the mailed boot of his free leg. The painful blows only caused the panicked animal to thrash more wildly in its losing bout with death, and with each thrash of its legs, it pressed its weight more against the count’s trapped, crushed limb.
Loyal Duncan, heedless of the menace of the volleys of arrows that sang through the air all around him, reined in his own mount and trotted to the count’s side. Quickly seeing the hopelessness of horse’s struggle, he raised his great lance like a spear and plunged it deep into the horse’s head. The animal’s struggles ceased.
“Onward, Duncan,” Dunsford shouted through clenched teeth. “The men-at-arms can free me. Go! Fight them!”
“Aye, my lord,” Duncan replied, raising his shield as another flight of arrows plunged to earth around him. One shaft buried itself in his shield; another bit into the dead flesh of the count’s horse. Duncan handed his shield to the pinned count. “A
t least protect yourself, my liege.”
“I shall, I shall,” the grateful war leader replied. “Now go, lead the attack!”
But the attack was already faltering. No sooner had the tenth flight of arrows been loosed than Viscount Karl shouted another simple command. “Prepare to receive!” he bellowed.
At the front of the great block, the first battle, three ranks deep, knelt and planted the ends of their great spears on the hard earth. Their hands gripped the ends of the spear shafts and their strong arms kept the points, which included an extra metal hook for ripping armor, angled upward at about thirty degrees.
Behind the first battle, the second hoisted their spear shafts waist high and aimed them forward. The third battle raised their spears high in both hands and, resting the ends atop their shoulders, likewise pointed the business ends dead ahead.
The result of this simple maneuver was a wall of spear points, now three rows high, extending outward some fifteen feet from near the earth to the height of a man’s head. Similar maneuvers by the men facing the sides caused a similar bristling defense to be presented on either flank.
Sir Richard was the first in Dunsford’s army to learn a basic lesson concerning animal behavior. A horse, even a trained, charging war-horse, will not willingly impale itself. Sir Richard was less than twenty yards from the enemy when his own mount veered off, slowing its pace, finally coming to a winded halt with its flanks presented to the enemy only a few feet away. Sir Richard shouted and howled and cursed. He gestured threateningly with his great lance, but could only touch the spear points and hooks, not the men behind them.
