Christian Cameron: The Ill-Made Knight

Edward was the last man in my battle to mount his horse.

Around us, other battles were in the last stages of preparation. Thornbury had all veterans, and he was ready — his whole company sat on their mounts, mocking the latecomers. The Germans were much slower — I could see a German man-at-arms who didn’t have his breast and backplates on yet.

Sir John rode up to me. He looked over the camp and the Field of Mars — the place where we formed. As I watched, he came to a decision.

‘You decide how far you can go,’ he said. ‘This is mostly for honour. Hapsburg has too many men for us to win a real victory. I’d like a man to touch the barricades.’

It was an honour, in a chivalric fight, to have reached the enemy barricades. I knew this language.

You might ask, mon dieu , if Sir John Hawkwood was making war into a business, why should touching the enemy barricades matter.

Look you. We were an army of a few thousand men, facing a city with a population of a hundred times that, defended by an army four times our own size. Even if we obliterated our enemies, we couldn’t take Florence.

But men are not clockwork. They are flesh and blood. Taunts sting us. Insults hurt us.

‘I’ll do it,’ I said.

He tapped me on the shoulder with his steel-clad fist. ‘I imagine you will, William.’

He looked around.

An Italian priest — doubtless a Pisan — came forward with a censer, and said a prayer over us. I said a paternoster. A boy handed me a clay cup of water and smiled.

‘I want to be a knight when I grow up,’ he said in pretty fair English.

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the water.’

I turned to my lance and raised my fist.

‘On me,’ I said.

We filed off, and I led the way out onto the road. A dozen exiled Florentines — gentlemen — were gathered there, and two of them left their ranks. They led us down the road almost two leagues, and then we went across farm fields for as long as it would take a nun to sing Mass.

In the distance, I could see the Florentine forces forming. I remember thinking, Sweet Virgin Mother, they’ve had all night, they know we’re coming, and they still aren’t ready. It lit a small fire of hope in me.

My gentleman guide pointed with his sword. ‘The gate of San Gallo,’ he said.

It was a great gate, big enough for ten men to ride in abreast, and in front of it were entrenchments and barricades. They were full of men — crossbowmen from the guilds and German men-at-arms. They were about 500 paces distant, and the ground was as clear as a farmer’s field from us to them. It rose steadily, too.

But the men manning those makeshift walls weren’t steady. They seethed like maggots on a wound. Some were still arming, and others. .

Who knows why men are late?

‘Companions!’ I called out, and all the muttering behind me died away. Something was forming in my head: Anger. And hope. I raised my hand again.

‘The best way to do this is very quickly. We form a line right here on my command. We will ride to long crossbow shot and dismount, as fast as lightning, and we will go forward to the barricades without stopping to dress our line or issue challenges or any other formality.’ I looked back. ‘As soon as Sam finds the distance comfortable, the archers are to fall to the rear and loft over us — steadily.’

‘Comfortable, is it?’ Sam said.

‘All the way to the barricades,’ I said. ‘And over them, into the town.’

I had fifty lances. There were 3,000 men at the barricades.

‘All the banks in the world are here,’ I said.

That got a happy grumble.

‘Drink water!’ I ordered.

I loosened my sword in its sheath and checked de Charny’s dagger.

No one said, ‘This is insane.’

No one suggested we should stop.

‘Ready?’ Men at the barricade were pointing at us. We were so few, I assume they thought we wouldn’t attack. Indeed, militiamen were already trailing away, back into the town. Looking for breakfast, the lucky sods.

I drew de Charny’s dagger from my belt. ‘I took this from Geoffrey de Charny at Poitiers!’ I roared.

Men cheered.

‘I will give it to the first man to touch the barricades!’ I called.

They roared.

‘Let’s go,’ I said.

Twenty yards into the empty field, I raised my fist, and my lances flowed forward from the right and left. A well-trained company can array itself faster than most folk can imagine. I didn’t finish the first five lines of my paternoster before they were ready.

‘Forward!’ I called. I turned to look back, and saw Sir John with Thornbury’s battle coming up on my left.

I didn’t wait. I was, I hoped, doing what I’d been told. And I thought, To hell with it. Hell was probably where I was destined.

The Germans looked half armed and asleep. All 2,000 of them.

We covered fifty paces at a fast trot. Then another fifty. Not a bolt was loosed at us. Another fifty. We were moving well — I was proud of my lances, because we were in good order and well-bunched up.

We crossed the line I’d imagined for crossbow range, and since we received no bolts, I let us go on. Every heartbeat ate another pace.

A dozen bolts came out of the barricades. I’d aligned my attack with the rising sun. I looked back — it was a red ball behind us.

Another flight of bolts, and most of them went well over me. Somewhere one struck with a nasty hollow metallic sound. A horse screamed.

The crossbowmen would be spanning.

‘Halt!’ I roared. And then, ‘Dismount!’

I swung my leg over, turned sideways, put my breastplate against my saddle and slithered to the ground.

My page emerged from behind me, slipped past me and took Pierre, who gave me a look.

The page dropped my spear at my feet. I stooped to get it, rose and looked right and left. I turned back towards Florence and began to walk the last 200 paces to the barricade.

A bolt struck my left spaulder and skidded away. It felt like a heavy punch from a strong man. There was a rattle of bolts — a dozen must have struck — but as far as I could see, all my men were still moving forward. And, of course, when you are going forward, you can’t see your dead.

I looked down at the ground beneath my feet. Green tufts were springing to life in the old cart track, and there were the remnants of a house, probably pulled down the night before.

There was another rattle of crossbow bolts and a long, joyless scream.

The crossbow bolts were coming faster now. I took one more look, right and left, and closed my visor.

I think I laughed. I was empty. Empty of need or desire. I didn’t care about my next meal or about John Hawkwood’s next plan or Emile or our saviour. I was going to touch the barricade.

The barricade was eighty paces away, a little lower than a man and lined with men in armour that lit up red in the sun.

War-bow shafts began to fall like wicked sleet on the barricade and the men behind it.

I hadn’t intended to run, but I found myself trotting, and the line trotted to keep up with me.

There were shouts ahead.

I felt. . strong. There was no reason that a frontal assault on the barricades should be going this well, and I had time to consider that it was a trap — that there was cavalry concealed to my left. But my last glance at my men had shown Thornbury’s battle coming up on my left and Thomas Biston’s on my right. If it was a trap, their Germans would need a hell of a lot of cavalry.

Baumgarten was deploying behind me.

We were as well placed as we were going to be.

I was running — in sabatons. Somewhere in my line was a man cursing his squire, but that day it was not me. Our line was fair enough, and the rising sun turned the tips of our spears to fire.