Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

At first it seemed he was going to be right, too. It all started a little before noon. Jean and his brother and father were with the crossbowmen, and moved forward with the bidauts and shield-bearers to a position just short of the streams, where they settled down to exchange bolts with the enemy. Initially it looked as though many on either side would be slain, but then the Flemings began to give way. It seemed they didn’t like the look of the horsemen forming up behind the French crossbows, and chose to retreat before they could be cut off.

It had seemed an auspicious moment. With a shout, the French crossbowmen began to hurry forward, firing as they went. Bernard was unused to the bow, but he managed to loose all his bolts early on, and he was one of the first to reach the streams and yell his defiance. It was as he turned to grin at Jean that Jean heard the loud, wet sound of a cloth hurled against a rock, and knew in his heart that it was Bernard. A long bolt had been fired at him from a great artillery crossbow, and had penetrated his leather jerkin with ease, the heavy wood slamming through bones and muscle of chest and arm until only the last few inches remained. Bernard fell, a thick bloody mess erupting from his mouth as he tried to call to Jean. He was already dead, Jean knew. He couldn’t breathe, because of the blood in his lungs, and the quarrel that had destroyed his whole upper body. Instead he fell back, thrashing about on the ground.

But the first of the men were wading through the water now, yelling and screaming their defiance, calling the Flemish peasants to come on, if they dared, cursing them, insulting their mothers and sisters, shouting that they would steal all their belongings by nightfall. However, the Comte d’Artois bethought himself that this was a good time to launch the main assault. If all the crossbowmen made it over the water, they would be easy prey for the Flemings. That was what Jean heard later, anyway. As it was, all he knew was that the standards suddenly appeared before the Comte’s bataelge. Almost immediately there was the bellowed command for the foot soldiers to retreat, and they needed no second warning. The terrible sight of those men and horses approaching was enough to send all who could rushing to escape. A few were trampled by the knights — as was poor Bernard’s body.

The Flemings saw the horses, too. They retreated into close-packed lines, each bristling with the sharp tips of lances, all butted carefully into the ground.

Jean could see that some of the horses were refusing to jump the streams. It was almost comical to see the knights spurring their mounts, trying to scold them into obedience, but the simple fact was that although the stream was only some four yards wide it was broad enough to deter a heavy war horse hampered by all its armour and a massy knight. Still, in short order the knights were over, and they began their charge.

Any remaining Flemish crossbowmen in front of the lines took out their knives and cut through the strings of their bows, rendering them useless, before hurling them down and scurrying for safety.

‘Poor fools!’ Jean heard a grizzled old warrior declare. ‘They’ll be cut to pieces.’

By now the horses were kicking up so much rubbish that to keep an eye on them was like watching a salmon in a vigorous river. All Jean could see was the line of horses making for the rebels like a living wave, ready to wash all from its path. As he knew, all the men on those horses had been trained from the age of five or six in the use of weapons to kill. And the Flemings? They’d picked up the nearest tool, probably, and like as not didn’t even possess a helmet. It would be all over in a short space of time.

He waited to see the line of bristling steel points waver, but couldn’t see over the top of the knights. Still, no man could stand before an irresistible foe like that. No one could. It was a rule of war.

The horses were rearing now, and he could hear the sounds of war; the neighing and shrieking, of thundering goedendags , the fearsome Flemish war-hammers with their long handles, the clatter and crash of swords, pikes and lances, the rattling of mail, the screams of terror and agony. And then he saw some of the horses pushing forward in the centre. The breach in the Flemish line had been effected at last.

‘The beginning of the end,’ his father muttered, pulling a grass stem from the ground and chewing the sweet, blanched part. ‘Soon over now. Best get moving.’

The other crossbowmen slung their weapons and made their way over the water, ready to carry out the foot soldier’s duty, using their long knives to put the wounded enemy out of their misery. It was the part which Jean had most dreaded beforehand. He had killed enough sheep to be able to do so without letting the poor creatures suffer, but that was different from killing a man. A man could look up and plead. He didn’t want to have to slay a man begging for his life. Now, though, since seeing his own brother’s horrified agony, all sympathy was flown. He wanted to kill Flemings. He hoped to be able to, to see a man pleading with him for his life, because Jean would pay no attention. He would kill and keep on killing until they were all dead. No mercy, no compassion, no sympathy for the rebels who had killed his brother.

There had been a fresh charge. They saw it over on their right, a pounding wave that broke farther through the line of pikemen. It gave them all a burst of enthusiasm. It was bound to crush the Flemings. Nothing could withstand that sort of onslaught. They said that one knight in his armour was worth at least a hundred ordinary warriors, and this was why.

And then he saw something that made his entire body shiver. He saw a French knight wheel round, dart back towards him, and then turn to gallop at the line once more.

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Just giving himself some space,’ the grizzled warrior said, and spat. ‘Give ’em that. These Flemings know how to fight.’

Jean nodded, but even as he turned to watch, he saw a small group of Flemings rush forwards. Three had the dreadful goedendags , hideous sledgehammer-like weapons set on seven-foot poles — some even longer — and he saw one swing, then the others, all at the horse’s head. There was a little puff of red smoke from beneath the horse’s armour, and although the knight swung a long sword, he couldn’t reach them. The horse collapsed to kneel, and the hammers again slammed into its head, but already one of them was turning to the knight himself. Then pikes were stabbing up under his helmet. Even as the horse began to fall to one side, Jean saw a jet of blood squirt from between the breast plate and the helmet. The knight dropped his sword, and scrabbled with his gauntleted hands at the blade in his throat, but it was too late. He could expect no quarter, and even as he tried to prise himself free the hammers rose and fell, and he disappeared from view.

There was the sound of horns, a blaring, raucous noise, and he turned to see the last bataelge trotting down towards the streams. There they stopped and waited, their flags and pennons flying merrily in the breeze.

The Flemings nearest saw them, and Jean saw them challenging the knights, daring them to come on. ‘Father, are you sure we should …’

‘What?’

The foot soldiers with them were aware now that not all was going as they had anticipated. Their forward trot had slowed, and some of the men were watching the little scene on their right.

When the taunts and challenges failed, some Flemings started to cross the river to attack the French, and as they reached the other bank Jean felt a hideous heaviness form in his belly.

The main body of French knights wheeled, and rode away, their shields still on their backs. A few apparently felt so revolted by the idea of leaving their comrades on the field that they charged forward, only to fall to the hammers and pikes.