For God and Leanne

“For God and Leanne”
David Porter


The flags of the old country fluttered aloft in the breeze. The July sun poured down upon the spears and swords, held ready.
He looked upon this, remembered the words of Tibullus. “Who was it that first forged the deadly blade, of rugged steel his savage soul was made.” Those words rang true in his mind, he repeated them in his head, looking out on the King’s cavalry, the king, sitting atop his finely combed white stallion, freshly polished armor covering its breast and neck.
The King. “Damn him.” He looked upon him, not with envy, but with hatred. He enjoyed war too much. Commoners starved at home as he rode out among the endless plains, commencing battles that had no business being fought. Battles that wasted his already dwindling forces.
He had no care for them, saw even his knights as useless sword fodder. It never even crossed his mind that the men he threw out to battle on year long campaigns had families back home. Wives, children, girlfriends.
It was then he thought of her, a wave of sadness engulfing him as he pictured her in his mind. Leanne. Oh beautiful Leanne. She strode across his thoughts with grace and laughter. Had it been six months that he had last seen her, spoken to her? Had it been four weeks that he had last received a letter, two weeks that he had last sent one? What would she think? She had grown accustomed to a letter a week. Was she angry with him, worried for him? He could imagine her back in Wales, pacing the hallways, longing to touch his face. Oh she would put on her corset, lace on the dress he had given her on her past birthday, and go meander down the cobblestone streets, waving at the passing nobleman, stepping in the corner bakeries, trying desperately to get him out of her thoughts with a lightly toasted pastry. But in the end, when she returned home, she would again think back to him with more grief and worry than before.
Strangely, he got a rather perverse pleasure from imagining her sorrow for him. He would think to it whenever he need the condolences of having someone back home that loved him, wanted him. The calm reassurance that there was good and love in the world. A place of peace. He had been amongst crystal streams, daisies lining their banks, thundering waterfalls amidst the French woodland. He had sat for hours watching the birds sing in the trees. But even that could not match up with the solitude of utter tranquility that he imagined as home.
Home. There was a word. A word that sent chills up his spine, a word that would nearly bring a tear to his eye, making him thankful for the armor plating that covered his grief stricken face.
His hatred grew for the King, had he no decency of a place to call home, a place to raise his family? Or was he captivated completely by the violence and bloodshed of the battlefield? He despised the man. He rode alongside his royal servants. Royal servants that kissed every inch of his ass just for the pure hope of receiving his blessing. Damn the King’s blessings. If he had wanted the King’s blessings he would have sent his knights to the slaughterhouse for the “Glorious Cause” that the King so fondly called it, a euphemism for needless, bloody warfare. That was the only way it seemed, to get the King’s attention, was to die gallantly in battle. The man didn’t want brave living men, he wanted dead heroes. Heroes he could brag about at his lavish feasts, feasts that steal the food of those who need it most, the starving peasants he crowded into fourth world buildings to die. It seemed like mass genocide of his own race. Genocide that he continued on the French countryside and in the forests of long lost barbarians, hanging in the back of the line as he sent other men to die in his stead. Oh he would shout his fine speeches written by his poets that fooled only the infantry. He would act the part of a brave leader, a part he played better than the actors of Shakespeare themselves. He acted as the loving father to the wounded men, the caretaker to the dead, the only men he held any lot to. He cared none for the living, and he showed it.
He raised his long sword against the sun, never once used, covered only with the water of the stream he had polished it in. “For God and Country!” His hypocritical cry.
“For what God?” He asked. “For what Country?” Was it a pagan god that spited man for the slightest wrong move, that laughed at their troubles. The country that ravaged the poor, sold salvation with coins, not His holy word? He bragged to fight for Christ, a loving God, but he followed none of that God’s lessons. He did not love the poor, he did not care for the prostitutes, he paid them. He paid them with his wife’s gold.
“We’re not dying for God, nor country, we die for him!” He repeated those words now, nearly wanting to shout them, but he did nothing but roll his eyes, pat his horse, and give an order to his men, his armored hand in the air, “Hold.”
The battlefield took on a silence, the legions of France in the valley below. A carrier pigeon fell, killed by the royal hawk that circled the place of killing, and then it was broken, shattered by a final order before the soldiers left the king behind, making dust trails in their way down the hill side, leaving the king only to watch, and smile. “Forward! Kill them!”
He started his horse, blowing his hair from his eyes and shutting the guard on his helmet. He motioned for his men to follow, before thundering down the hillside in pursuit of the stationary French.
He looked at them with horror in his eyes, saw on their spears, lied out like a Greek Phalanx, a thousands deaths. He thought again to Leanne now, saw her pacing awaiting his return. But he gained no pleasure from the thought, only sorrow from the realization that he may never see her beautiful face again. May never again look upon her hazel eyes, feel her silky brown hair, meet her loving stare, a stare that made him die every time he saw it.
He saw now only war. War. The left column of the line, a half mile form him, fell under arrow fire, leaving bodies lying amongst the grass, food for the carrier birds. They engaged the enemy, met by a half charge. Iverson’s Knights backed them up, a rolling flanking maneuver to the left of them.
“Fools.” He thought. Emerging from the trees rode French cavalry, their long spears at the ready. They slammed into the rear of the befuddled knights, causing the line to bow under the sheer force.
He turned his eyes from them, didn’t want to see it anymore. He placed his attention now on a small gap in the French line, left ominously unattended. If the right column could engage the for of the French legion, he would be able to slip in and take the center from the rear. He ordered the men to slow, to wait.
The French line met the right column, furthering the hole. He smiled, making ground quickly. He heard from the center, now fully drawn in battle, the screams of, “For the King!”
He grimaced. He knew the others had heard it as a well, could feel their hateful scowls behind him. He had to say something. Over the thundering hoof beats and cries of battle he shouted, “Damn the King! I fight for Leanne!” He listened to their retorts, pleased. “Aye sir! For Leanne!”
He broke though the hole, encircled by his beloved knights, shouting his name. “For Albert!” He took joy in it, even though he wanted no man to die for him. So he replied, his sword glistening in the July sun. “For Leanne! For God!” And he plunged in the French rear, a scream of murder on his tongue. “Maybe Leanne will hear it.” A sliver of hope. But the scream died quickly away among the other sounds of battle and the sweet melody of the angels’ songs as they descended upon the field.