Travel back in time with me.
Your name is Guy. You are fifteen years old, and frightened. And trying like anything not to show it. The men to your right and left certainly don't look afraid. Neither do the grim-faced men on the other side of the stream a quarter of a mile in front of you.
It is the eleventh of July, in the year of our Lord 1302, and you are about to join your first battle.
The fear surprises you. You wanted to be here, after all. Two years ago, the French imprisoned your lord, Guy of Dampierre, your namesake, and his son. They swept in with their armies and their tax-collectors and told you and your father that you are now French--and must pay French taxes.
But you are not French, will never be French. You are Flemish, free men of West Flanders--and even if you wanted to be French you could not afford the French taxes. So when you learned the men of Bruges had risen against the occupiers, you rushed to join them.
Which is what brought you here.
It's a very good position, the veterans tell you, and you've spent nearly a week making it better. The flat plain to your front seems ideal for a cavalry charge--which is why you've spend the last few days digging pottes, small holes just wide and deep enough to trip a horse or break its leg, either way sending its rider to the ground where you can fight him on much closer to equal terms. Any charge across this field, the veterans say, will give the hated French knights a nasty surprise.
The castle of Courtrai behind you, filled with French soldiers, makes you nervous; but they aren't going anywhere, the veterans say. The men of Ypres, waiting just in front of the gate, will keep them inside the castle. You can deal with them after you've dealt with their friends out here.
Their friends, the men across the field from you, are the reason you're afraid. Especially the knights, sitting their big horses behind their infantry lines and chatting with each other as if this were the most ordinary place in the world, as if ten thousand men weren't waiting to kill them a short distance away. Their lack of fear makes you afraid. Makes you wonder whether the field full of pottes will slow them enough for your weapons to overcome their fearsome reputation.
Your weapons are stout, formidable; the men to your left and right carry long spears, designed to be braced against the ground to receive a man charging on horseback. And in your hands is the weapon you'll use on any who get past the spears--your godendag, a stout club, five feet long and banded with iron at the fat end, the whole crowned with a stout spike a foot long. The veterans tell you the club can crush a man's head even through his helmet, and the spike can pierce all but the best mail. You pray they're right. You grip it tightly, bracing it against the ground, leaning on it so they won't notice you shaking.
But nobody is looking at you. Everybody is staring across the field, staring, clutching their own weapons or crossing themselves. The man next to you--Richard is his name--appears to be muttering a prayer through clenched jaws while his chin sinks toward his chest like some kind of two-legged turtle. You follow his gaze, and you understand: now is the time to be afraid. The French crossbowmen, crouching behind their big shields, their pavises, on the far side of the field are winding their crossbows. Your own crossbowmen, out in front of your line, are doing the same.
The battle is beginning.
A man clad head to toe in gleaming mail steps out just in front of the French line, his sword raised high. The French crossbowmen lay their bolts in place, raise their weapons, and turn to him. He brings his sword down.
At first it seems like nothing happened; the crossbowmen turn their heads forward, then drop their crossbows and stoop to wind them again. Only then do you hear it--a sound like bees the size of swans passing over your head. Someone shouts "look out!"
It doesn't make sense at first, but then a bolt buries itself in the ground right in front of you. And you understand--the sound comes from crossbow bolts, not bees. All up and down the line, you can hear men shouting, screaming, cursing. You wonder whether anyone has been hit, but you don't dare look away; if you do, the next bolt might take you.
The next volley buzzes in--with more screams this time as the crossbowmen find the range--and you're struck by the unfairness of it all. Here you stand, your weapon in hand, ready to do battle, to measure your godendag against their swords and shields and mail, and they won't even stand against you, instead sending death your way from across the field. That your countrymen with their crossbows are doing the same to the French does not occur to you.
A third volley, and now your frustration turns to anger. Those men, those cursed Frenchmen, are trying to kill you! The last shreds of fear melt away in the face of your hot rage. You hear someone shouting defiance in your ears and realize the voice is your own. Your own, and hundreds of others, and you raise your weapon and let your screams carry your hate across the field. It's all you can do not to sprint across and find out whether your godendag will crush French mail as well as the veterans say it will. Two more volleys, and you stand and scream and curse through them, daring the bolts to find you. Somewhere deep inside you recognize what a fool you must sound, but you're too far gone in your battle-rage to care.
Now the barrage stops. Across the field you see the French crossbowmen quitting the field, slinging their pavises across their backs and trotting off to your right. And behind where they stood, now you see the infantry forming for the attack, flags waving, spears bristling. You hear the faint ring of trumpets, the clatter of drums as the French tighten their lines and step forward.
They move forward in what looks to you like good order, stepping toward you as one. They have to slow, to open up their ranks and break their formations, to get across a shallow stream that runs through the field. But they cross with no trouble, and now they're on your side and reforming their lines. You watch them come, and your rage begins to fade toward fear again.
Now there's confusion in the French ranks. Trumpets ring again, this time behind the infantry line, and the line stops. Behind and above them you can see the knights surging toward the stream. Awkwardly, clumsily, gaps open in the infantry lines for the knights and their horses to pass through.
"We should attack now," Richard says on your right. "Now, while they're in disarray." The two of you turn to look at Guy of Namur, your commander, the man who brought you here, sitting his horse next to William of Julich, the lord and commander of the Bruges men. But they simply sit there, watching the French knights pass through the French infantry, and say nothing.
You turn back toward the French, confused. Richard's advice seems sound. Why not attack? Then you remember. The pottes! Attacking means running across them, perhaps getting caught up in them yourselves. And their entire purpose is to break up a charge. If you attack now, your own defenses will break your charge and do no harm to your enemies.
So you wait and watch. The knights stumble across the stream, force their way through their infantry--you see several striking with the butts of their lances at any who move too slowly getting out of their way. But shortly they are through, and they take a moment to form their own lines before starting their attack.
Too soon the trumpet sounds again, the knights surge forward--and your heart leaps into your throat. Here it comes. The knights' charge. The end of every battle-story you have ever heard. Has anyone ever beaten a charge like this? The lords and the veterans all say you can. but watching them come, feeling the ground shake at their approach, you aren't sure.
The spearmen are bracing their spears, putting a foot on the butt and leaning forward to receive the charge. The godendag-men are raising their weapons, presenting the spikes to the enemy and holding the club-heads high to bring them down on knees or elbows or horses' heads as the knights close. You raise yours in the same fashion, determined to sell your life as dearly as you can.
Now the pottes are doing their work. You see horses in the front rank stumbling, falling, one or two tumbling hooves-over-head. Riders fall from their horses and are trampled by those behind, or leap from them as they fall and somehow keep their feet, or stay in their saddles and roll under them and never rise again. But those who don't fall keep coming, slower now, picking their way across the field to avoid their comrades' fate.
They hit the right first. You can hear the awful clash of flesh and steel and wood over in that direction. Then they fall upon the left, and the din rises even higher. But just as with the crossbowmen, you can't look away. You fix your attention on the men coming toward you at a slow trot. A bead of sweat runs down your cheek from under your cap.
They surge forward at the last moment, trying to gain some speed to complete their too-slow charge. Richard holds his spear-point just where the nearest horse can see it, and the animal shies aside just before the knight's own lance strikes home. The move throws his aim off and brings his mailed leg within your reach. You take half a step forward and thrust your spike at his thigh with all your strength.
The veterans were right. The mail resists your spike as well as stout leather resists a sharp knife, and you feel it strike home, feel it scrape against bone. The knight screams and drops his lance, clutching at his leg as you withdraw your weapon, but he can't stop the blood flowing down his leg and his horse's flank. Now Richard's spear finds the gap between his mail and his great-helm and he gives a choking cry and tumbles backward off his horse.
And everything goes red and chaos reigns. Every French knight in the world seems to be right in front of you, striking with spears and swords at you and your friends. The riderless horse has nowhere to go—he panics and rears, lashing out at friend and foe alike with his hooves until your comrades put him down with spears and clubs.
It’s all you can do to stay alive in the confusion. You strike at anything within your reach that looks like an enemy, stabbing at men and horses alike, bringing your club down on shoulders, knees, hands, feet. The din is overwhelming, men and horses screaming, steel and wood and iron tearing through iron and leather and flesh and bone, such a roar as you have never heard in the worst storm. The smells of man-sweat and horse-sweat and blood and fear and rage fill your nostrils and make thinking near impossible. A man falls off his maimed horse in front of you, and you put your spike to the eye-slit of his great-helm and push. He convulses once and lies still.
But you have to step back to stay with your friends, and back again, and again. The press of men and horses to your front is too great. The man to your left falls, his head split open by a mace. And you step back again, and again, until you’re sure the line is bending the wrong way and will break at any moment.
But now a new sound rises behind you, men crying “Shield and friend!” and the backward motion stops. It’s the battle-cry of Flanders—fresh men have rushed up from behind to join the fight.
Now the battle is no longer in doubt. A new strength fills your body as your line surges forward again, and soon it is the knights—more on foot now than on horseback—who are backing away from you.
And like a rope goes slack when you cut through the last strands, all the resistance in front of you melts away. Men stop fighting and turn and run, pelting their way over the bodies of their friends and their horses. But you haven’t had enough of killing, and you run after them.
No prisoners, the lords told you, while the battle is in doubt. And you take none. Your weapon works as well on a knight’s back as on his front, and even propelled by terror the knights can’t outrun you in their mail. The battle becomes a slaughter as you and your friends run them down, one by one.
The sun is nearing the horizon by the time the lords call off the pursuit. You return to the battlefield exhausted but elated, and you and your friends begin looting the French corpses. And any Frenchmen who aren’t quite corpses yet—it’s a simple matter to speed them on their way.
You come away from the battle with a fine steel cap, a dagger with a beautiful boarhide sheath, and a pocket full of silver—more money than you have ever seen. One of these coins will be enough to have a smith knock the dents out of the cap, and you feel confident you’ll be much better equipped for your next battle.
HN
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