Vampire Heretic

by Dan Davis

  “We must leave them,” Fastolf said. “It is regrettable but we cannot defend so many and they would take too long to traverse to our defensive position upon the hill.”

  Walt and Rob glared at me, for the hillock was low and small and entirely unsuitable. And indeed I felt compelled to speak up.

  “Sir John?” I said, drawing sharp looks from his men. “Might we not draw the wagons up here? If we make a wagon park where we stand, forming a great square or circle or any shape that creates a perimeter, then we may bring the men and horses safely within. Our brave archers may then shoot the enemy at will. We shall be unassailable.”

  “How dare you, sir!” Hugh cried. “Do not question your captain again. Sir John has spoken and it is our duty to follow his commands. When he says—”

  Fastolf held up his hand. “Peace, Hugh, I beg you. Peace.” Sir Hugh fell silent and glared at me while Fastolf, to his great credit, continued. “Richard’s suggestion has merit. Command the drivers to bring the wagons up into a perimeter. And have the archers plant their stakes beyond.”

  His men gaped in astonishment for a long moment until one of them began shouting commands. Soon, they all followed and our great convoy of three hundred wagons and carts, was arranged into a rough and large fort, where the walls were wagons. It was conducted swiftly but only with much shouting and cursing and with such great clanking of wheels and chains and neighing of horses that any enemy within ten miles would have thought we were having a battle all by ourselves. The archers were commanded to plant their long wooden stakes on the outside of the wagons, most at the front and others on the flanks, so that the enemy horsemen could not charge close and push their way through by weight of horse.

  “Thousands, was it?” I asked Walt and Rob, as we watched the madness behind us.

  They exchanged a look. “We’re in for a rare scrap, Richard,” Rob said.

  “Don’t really think this will work, do you?” Walt asked, nodding at the chaotic mass of wood and wheels being shifted into position.

  “It was a proven tactic employed in open country by the people of the grasslands against the Mongols,” I said.

  Rob scratched his head under the rim of his helm. “I thought no one ever defeated the Mongols in battle?”

  “The French are not the Mongols,” I pointed out.

  Even as we drew the last of the wagons into position at the rear, our enemy came into sight through the woods and hedgerows up ahead. First, it was scattered groups of horsemen emerging from the shadows beneath the bare trees to watch us and our strange behaviour. But very quickly the main force followed, already deployed into a broad front and flying their banners and with lances held high. They had horsemen, infantry, and crossbowmen, and their colours were bright and their armour shining in the late winter sun.

  “Should we perhaps retire to within our wagon fortress, Richard?” Rob suggested.

  “I think perhaps we should.”

  Their forces were commanded by Jean, known as the Bastard of Orléans on account that he was the illegitimate son of the old Duke of Orléans. The Duke was long dead but he had been the second son of the old King of France and so Jean the Bastard had royal blood and was first cousin to the Dauphin.

  And the French were indeed supported, as Walt had claimed, by a powerful contingent from our old enemy, the cunning Scots. They were led by a superb soldier named Sir John Stewart of Darnley. He was a wily old sod who had fought and won a dozen battles in France against the English over the previous decade.

  “It would be pleasing to me,” I said to Walter and Rob as we watched them approach from atop barrels of dried herring on the back of a wagon, “if we could put an end to Sir John Stewart.”

  Rob nodded and caressed the side of his bow stave. “I’ll put an arrow in his eye if I can, Richard.”

  More and more companies emerged and took position a mile away. The mounted men alone outnumbered us and there were thousands of spear-armed infantry and crossbowmen in formations

  “They’re taking their sweet time,” Walter grumbled, leaning on his poleaxe.

  “They are right to be afraid of us,” I said, looking over my shoulder at our archers. “We shall pick them apart and drive them away.”

  Rob grinned. “Another Agincourt.”

  Walt scoffed. “You’re always calling everything another Agincourt, Rob. You said that after Verneuil, five years ago.”

  Rob’s grin fell into a scowl. “Well, it’s true, ain’t it?”

  Walter ignored him, squinting into the distance. He tensed.

  “What is it?” I prompted.

  “Those wagons,” he pointed them out amongst the colourful pageantry of the men-at-arms. “See that. And there. Also there. They’re carrying cannons, Richard. Are they preparing them to use against us?”

  It was already cold and yet I felt a sudden shiver of fear. “Warn Fastolf,” I said to Rob, who raised an eyebrow. “No, no. I shall do it myself.”

  “You see!” his man Sir Hugh cried when I relayed the warning. “We shall be blasted into pieces. We should have abandoned the wagons. Sir John? We must retire to a more favourable position. The hillock yonder, as you first ordered earlier this day. Shall I relay your order to the men?”

  Fastolf glared at me while his man was speaking. “It is too late now, Hugh. If we leave the protection of the wagons, they shall run us down. We are vastly outnumbered, are we not? How many are there?”

  “A thousand, my lord,” one of his knights said, shrugging. “Perhaps a little more.”

  The others in his retinue nodded.

  “They are four thousand,” I said. “See for yourself. Count the banners, my lords. There are five hundred Scots alone, you can see it with your own eyes. My lord Sir John is right. There is no leaving this place now so we must weather the storm. Have no fear. These cannons are barely capable of hitting a castle wall, let alone striking us here. We must sit and listen to them blasting their filthy, stinking smoke at us for half a day until they run out of gunpowder and cannonballs and then we can be on our way to Orléans and reach the forts, God willing, by nightfall.”

  The first of their cannons fired and the ball flew just over the front row of our wagons, killed two horses and smashed a wagon at the rear that was still being eased into position. It exploded into a shower of splinters and its cargo of arrows was tossed into the air like sparks from a bonfire. Men ran screaming and pages fought to control the panicking horses.

  “Get out of my sight,” Fastolf said to me.

  I returned through our soldiers and archers to Rob and Walt who were cowering against a wheel of the wagon we had been standing on.

  “Did you warn him about the cannons, sir?” Walt asked.

  I looked down and sighed. “I do not think that wheel will serve to protect you, men.”

  Another cannon fired and the ball ripped through the air over our heads with that sound that I would come to know so well over the coming centuries. It landed unseen beyond our wagon fortress but other than being a few feet too high was right on target.

  “I think I may have understated their effectiveness a little,” I admitted, crouching down beside Rob and Walt.

  Another cannon sounded and a ball bounced in front of our position before crashing through a wagon at the right flank of our fortress. It took off a wheel and the whole thing collapsed, spilling its barrels of herring outward onto the archers’ stakes beyond in a mound of dried fish.

  Our men were shouting continuously now, yelling at each other in their fear. Many sat on the ground and hunched over with their hands over their heads. Some already lay stretched on their faces which was certainly the most sensible but also least dignified form of repose one can effect.

  The bombardment continued for some time but after their first successes, their balls went too high or too wide just as many times as they hit us. In those early days, the practice of field artillery was hampered by the inconsistency of supplies, as it was by the lack of expertise. Gunpowder wa
s variable in quality, as were cannonballs and the cannons themselves. Each one had its own unique issues that had to be adjusted for and with repeated firings the barrels grew hotter, expanded and were in danger of breaking or even exploding. I would not see the science of cannon artillery reach its peak until I fought against the armies of Napoleon almost four hundred years later.

  We took casualties but not so many that our men dissolved in panic. Indeed, the more we took, the more the men-at-arms and archers grumbled about their inaction. They wanted to ride out and take the battle to the enemy. A natural reaction but to act upon it would have been foolhardy in the extreme.

  “I believe their rate of firing has slowed,” Rob said from where he sat, leaning back on the wheel of our wagon and sharpening his arrowheads one by one. His fingers were white from the cold.

  “I believe you are right,” I said, grasping the side of the wagon to pull myself up. I poked my head up over the top of the barrels. “Well, would you look at the mad bastards.”

  Walt and Rob scrambled up beside me as the cannons fell silent and we heard the familiar sound of kettle drums beating and war pipes droning.

  “The Scots are attacking,” Walt stated. “But not the French.”

  I laughed because it was true and because it might just mean we would not be pounded into dust after all.

  Hundreds of Scots came forward on foot, clutching their weapons and cheering themselves on with the banners waving above them.

  “Archers!” I shouted. “Archers, stand and come forward. String your bows, you blessed bastards. The Scots are crying to be filled with English arrows once more. Come on, up you lucky bunch of bastards. Now is your time for glory.”

  In my excitement I had forgotten my lack of formal position and yet the men responded. They were professional enough to need little encouragement at such times and their captains organised them efficiently. As soon as the five hundred Scots were in range, our shooting began.

  The poor Scots fell. Our arrows smashed into them and many of the mad sods were wearing inadequate armour which our arrows easily pierced. Still, they came on like the wrathful devils they were and when they came close to our stakes, our archers climbed on the wagons to shoot down into them.

  Their success in reaching us must have encouraged the French for then their mounted men-at-arms came across the plain to crush us with their horses and steel.

  We had thousands and thousands of arrows on our wagons and so our archers did not hold back but instead shot and shot at the Scots and the French as they charged us. 0ur arrows alone were enough to drive off the French who fled back to their lines.

  The Scots, though, were filled with a murderous rage that the French did not feel and they pushed forward again and again. Their final assault reached the walls of our wagons and many of them clambered up the sides before they were struck down.

  Thousands of French men-at-arms held in the rear and watched their allies being killed.

  Was it a ruse to draw us out? It likely was but then the French were ever filled with terror of the English archers and so I suspected that they were genuinely frozen in inaction.

  “Bring the horses,” I commanded our pages, raising my voice so that other men would hear. “Bring the horses up and move aside that wagon on the flank there.”

  Other knights wondered aloud what we were up to and I answered, again speaking so that scores would hear my words.

  “We shall ride out. Do you hear? We shall ride out and come at the Scots from the rear. If they do not flee, they will be killed to a man.”

  No order was given, as far as I know, and yet a hundred men and then a hundred more streamed out of our fort on the flank. We came at the Scots just as I said and ran them down. Those few captains of theirs who were mounted chose not to flee and to instead die with their men.

  I aimed for the banner of Sir John Stewart of Darnley and charged him alone on my tired horse. It was a hard fight, but I brought him down and quickly dismounted. I strode forward and shouted that he was to surrender himself to me. Instead, he rolled onto his feet and rushed me with his poleaxe and I drove my sword point through his visor as I bore him to the ground.

  “The French come!”

  At the cries of warning, I leapt back atop my horse and prepared to meet the attack. Our lines formed as the French approached and I found Walt at my side once more, riding a horse that was not his. He opened his visor to lick an enemy’s blood from his steel gauntlets before closing it again. His face had been contorted into a wide grin.

  Our enemies were led by the Bastard of Orléans himself but as the great wall of steel that was the French came close to us, a massive volley was loosed upon them from hundreds of English archers standing on the backs of the wagons. Another volley smashed into them and the French approach was halted. Horses fell as another volley crashed in a great cacophony of clanging iron against steel and then a volley of English jeering went up as the French turned and fled.

  “Did you see?” Walt shouted. “The Bastard of Orléans fell!”

  We would later discover that the cousin of the Dauphin had been merely wounded but the sudden shock of it, on top of the total slaughter of the Scots, was enough to drive the French from the field.

  As our convoy unwound itself and continued toward Orléans, the archers and the men were thrilled by our unlikely victory. All knew how it was my defensive strategy that had saved us from being caught in the open, and they knew it was my tactical decision to counter-attack. I was feted and I felt good about their praise, for I have always been vain.

  But as we rode, Sir John Fastolf glared at me with hostility. He would claim the victory as his own, of course, but the men would know the truth. And he would know it himself in his heart. I had made an enemy of Sir John and it would come back to haunt me in the defeats to come. My decisions that day may have won a battle but they also may have lost us the war.

  In fact, we should have lost the battle, if only the French had acted decisively. If the French had continued their barrage of cannon and so blasted holes in our defences, they could have charged in and slaughtered us. If they had brought forward their hundreds of crossbowmen first, they would have softened us up further. But the Scots could not control themselves, as usual, and the French had lacked the will to finish us off. Ever since the days of Edward III, the English armies had been protected by an invisible cloak of invincibility. It was a cloak that existed in the hearts of Frenchman and Englishman alike and that magic had turned dozens of battles that should have been English defeats into English victories.

  But it would not last for much longer.

  For unknown to me, or to any of us, that very day in a place far to the east, a young girl was begging for permission to meet the Dauphin. Claiming to hear the voices of angels commanded by God, Joan of Lorraine swore in front of witnesses that the Dauphin's arms had that day suffered a great reverse near Orléans.

  When news of the victory that I had wrought reached the court of the Dauphin, the girl Joan was finally invited to his presence.

  After convincing him that she was indeed divinely inspired, she was given leave to lead an army to the city of Orléans and so defeat the English.

  At her side as she approached the city was a nobleman from Brittany named Gilles de Rais.

  4. Castle Tiffauges

  May 1440

  “This is a terrible idea,” Stephen said as we approached the gatehouse of Castle Tiffauges. “The priest will not be within.”

  Rob and Walt rode behind us in silence, prepared to do violence, should it come to it. Rob had even strung his bow in preparation and held it low and ready. Our three valets rode behind them as I hoped that a larger party would make a grander impression on whoever I found within the castle.

  One of the Marshal’s servants was a priest who I had two interesting pieces of information about in the few days since arriving. Firstly, he had stayed his master’s hand when a fellow priest was threatened with murder, and second, it seemed he
had attempted to flee from his master’s service some months before. I believed that he might possibly be an unwilling participant in whatever was going on in the castles and manors of the Marshal. And if that was true then perhaps he would be willing to make a statement himself. Or at the very least, perhaps he would provide information on the other servants, such as who they were, what they were up to, and where they might be found.

  My men disagreed.

  “You did not have to come, Stephen,” I replied, leaning forward to pat my nervous horse’s neck. “If you truly think this such a terrible idea.”

  “I am not one to shy away from danger,” Stephen said, clutching his satchel to his chest and hunching over in the saddle, his face pale beneath his hat.

  “And the priest is here,” I said. “The Marshal’s choir remains in this castle to practice their singing, day and night, and so the priest will be here, also.”

  “Hmm,” Stephen said, for although we had this information from more than one local, he suspected half of what was spoken was rumour. “It is whether the Marshal’s soldiers are here that concerns me.”

  It concerned me, too, but I was never going to admit it. “We are not going to assault the place, Stephen. Why would the soldiers bother us, even if they are here?”

  The castle was powerful indeed and commanding, built with enormous blocks of sandstone and tiny, narrow windows dotting the towers and the curtain walls. The strength of the place bore down on us evermore the closer we got.

  “What is with this damned weather?” Stephen complained, rubbing warmth into his arms as he rode. “The calendar approaches summer and yet winter’s cold has not passed. Will it never be spring?”

  “Cursed land, ain’t it,” Walt called from behind.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Stephen said.

  The ramp up to the gate tapered until it constricted to the width of a cart or two horses riding abreast. Attacking the place would indeed take an army and I forced down the nervousness rising in my throat.

  “The Marshal is not in residence,” I said aloud. “Other than the choir and our priest, the place is practically empty.”