Devil's Music

Devil's Music

         The French army was a spectacle to behold. Ten thousand lords and their men had come to destroy the English once and for all. They The gigantic column undulated and was full of its own comings and goings as forty thousand men tried to keep a uniform pace. It took couriers hours to ride from back to front to deliver tactical messages. The very earth quivered at their coming. Sir William Douglas rode at the front of the column, a genuine grin stretching his weather beaten face. It had been too long since he felt the strength of a nation marching at his back. He had been a boy at Neville’s Cross, and now he was old enough to appreciate the awesome power of an army. They had sent out scouting parties in every direction to make sure no ambush lay behind them or that the English hadn’t tried to double back. Not that an ambush would affect this army. It would be like a wolf being assailed by a fox hound.

Raoul de Coucy cantered his courser loosely across the field of rippling wheat. It was harvest season, but the folk had fled for miles around from the ravening English army. He rode with ten other knights, all using the reconnaissance as an excuse to get out of the oppressive confines of the forest. They now rode ten abreast, having left their squires and followers behind. It was reckless, having ten of the gentry out by themselves, but they were at last happy and rode ever more recklessly away from the column. After some time, Raoul saw a great manor to their right shrouded in a veil of oak trees.

“La Chaboterie,” said a tall knight.

“You have been here before, Sir Guillame?” inquired Raoul. The rushing warmth of this morning ride had cast out the poor humor the archer’s torture had put him in. The red-bearded Sir Guillame laughed.

“Been here? It was mine, Sir Raoul. My brother, good man that he is, stole it away from me! He needed something to call his own, and Poitiers is my town.”

“It must seem a blessing to have the Goddamns so close to your walls.”

Sir Guillame laughed again. “It’s a wonderful place, Sir Raoul. Sheer cliffs on every side too, I’d like to see the English break themselves on my walls.”

“As would I,” replied Raoul. There was something cold and humorless in his voice that stopped Guillame from responding. Then the red-haired knight followed Raoul’s eyes to the monastery of La Chaboterie. His stomach churned as he saw the charred skeletons of thatch houses along the packed earth road to the great stone structure. Corpses littered the street, hastily murdered and left to rot. The English had clearly been in a hurry, killing the serfs of La Chaboterie and stealing their food and water as they passed through. Raoul’s black mood began to descend upon him again as he pulled on the reins to turn towards the sacked village. His horse shied away, whickering and snorting, from a bloated mule carcass that still had a boar spear jutting from its ribs. Raoul’s spurs dug into his horse’s muscular chestnut flanks that had been brushed to shine, and it resumed its easy canter. The first corpse he passed was an old man lying on his back in dust blackened with his own dried blood. An empty wicker basket lay crushed next to him. Raoul tore his eyes from the old man and they came to rest on a corpse smaller than the rest, curled up around itself with an arrow’s goosefeather flights barely protruding from its back. Raoul’s jaw clenched. Tangled hair hid the once vital face of the little girl. A limp child’s hand lay pale and pathetic in dust that was marked with the telltale signs of her death throes. Raoul’s eyes moved down to the arrow—

“Regardez vous!” screamed a startled voice. Raoul whirled about in the saddle, and saw Sir Guillame struggling to bring his shield around to the front of his body and pointing to the treeline beyond La Chaboterie. He followed Guillame’s eyes. Almost hidden in the trees were what he at first thought was a pack of gray wolves, but as his eyes took in more details, he realized were horsemen. They had watched the group silently, motionlessly from the trees as Raoul and the other French knights had cantered across the field. Leaves fell diagonally through shadow to mask them further. He saw one of them testing the draw of a great war bow, and he had the sudden bone chilling realization that they had stumbled upon an English reconnaissance party. But as quick as the shock had set in it was replaced by the image of the little girl’s corpse etched in his mind. Rage flowed like fire through his veins and set his heart ablaze as he swept out his bastard sword. His eyes blurred with tears as he kicked his courser so viciously that it screamed shrilly as it accelerated in quick practiced strides to full gallop. He was racing across the flowing wheat field, sword held in front of him and eyes glimmering in ineffable hatred.

“Raoul!” yelled Sir Guillame. He was suddenly overcome with panic as an English knight’s deep voice echoed over the field and the English horsemen streamed out of the deep wood to meet Raoul. The other French knights hadn’t even had the time to react. The transition from a carefree ride to an imminent skirmish had them stunned and motionless even as Guillame grabbed his pig snout helmet from where it hung by his legs, jammed it on his head and clanged the visor down.

“After them! To glory! Montojoie St. Denis!” he bellowed. The rest of the knights took up the royal battle cry as one by one they drew sword, hefted axes, and lowered lances at the English. Instinctively they formed into a line as they galloped, guiding their horses with only their knees. Not a man among them gave a thought to the odds they faced. They were ten, and the English had two dozen horsemen at least—and no one knew how many barbaric, unkempt soldiers might still be in the woods. Only the feel of a comrade plunging towards the enemy along side each knight kept the fear of death from tainting their hearts.

Raoul screamed, “Cowards! Murderers!” over and over as he stood up in the saddle helmetless and his horse’s spittle streamed out behind him. He felt the animal tensing, losing its nerve. This was no trained destrier that would hurl itself at a spear wall if its master’s spurs decreed it. But Raoul’s vicious kicks and maddened quivering made the horse stare blindly ahead and drive its powerful legs into the turf to stop the pain. Raoul steered directly towards the foremost Englishman—a man on a tall destrier wearing shining mail and blood red surcoat, lance pointed straight at Raoul’s chest and barely moving up and down as the two men pounded toward each other. They were fifty yards apart and closing fast, each horse hardly seeming to touch the ground in their speed. It seemed the ten foot lance would slam into Raoul’s chest, but at the last moment he twisted down in the side of the saddle and the lance hissed past, tearing his jupon. He thrust the sword forward as the lance missed him and he felt his arm jolt as the blade nicked the Englishman’s arm. He kept galloping into the horsemen, not knowing or caring what damage he had done. He saw an archer, shirtless in the heat, trying desperately to noch an arrow and his sword swept across to slash into the archer’s neck. He tore through the English, blade flashing on either side and trailing blood as his righteous fury gave him strength and quickness he had never felt before. He heard a ragged crash as his comrades collided with the English horsemen he had ridden past. He turned his horse in a wide arc and saw his countrymen tearing into the English cavalry. But then suddenly Sir Guillame was thrown back off his horse as a lance pierced his plate-armored stomach. He was suspended in the air for a moment, wriggling like a skewered fish, before the English knight released his lance and Guillame crashed to the ground. Roaring, Raoul galloped at the Englishman, who struggled to turn his horse about even as Raoul’s sword cut his head from his shoulders.

Both charges had collided and turned into a standstill. The French knights were on the inside of a semicircle, viciously fighting for their lives to get out. The English bore down upon them mercilessly, making a wall of horses and slashing blades. Horrified, Raoul galloped towards the English rear, but suddenly he felt something thump into his horse’s rump and the beast screamed like he had never heard a horse scream before. It struggled to keep galloping, but the arrow that had gone into its back leg past the flights tore muscle and scraped bone and the horse tumbled violently to the ground. Raoul instinctively jumped free of his crippled mount and smashed into the ground at galloping speed, trying to roll to minimize the damage. The ground tore at him and ravaged his face. At last he stopped rolling, and was hidden by the wheat. He was dazed, and felt something hot and wet dripping from his nose. His senses were numbed for a moment and he could only watch a beetle crawling up a golden shaft of wheat. But then the noises of battle returned to him with a roar. He had thrown his sword away in the fall, so drew a knife from his belt and tried to stand, but a great black destrier slammed him bodily back to the ground. It pranced energetically, hooves pounding on the turf. Its rider lifted his visor to reveal triumphant green eyes and a sun burnt face.

“I am Sir Hugh of Hopton,” said the knight in fractured French. “Do you yield?” Raoul saw the Englishman’s poised lance and his knuckles whitened on the wooden handle of his little knife. Raoul felt hot, angry tears flowing from his eyes as he heard a French knight pleading then the telltale crunch that ended it.

“I yield. I am Raoul de Coucy. You have won the day,” spat Raoul.

“The hour,” replied Sir Hugh, smiling gently, and extended a hand to help Raoul to his feet.

The Black prince trotted on horseback across the low grassy saddle towards the motionless Frenchmen half a mile away. One of them held at white flag and an olive branch aloft to signify a peace talk, but from the Prince’s hard, unblinking eyes and set jaw, his retainers who rode along side him were convinced that the son of Edward III meant to do battle. But he was lost in his thoughts. He remembered vividly his first battle at Crecy, when he had only been sixteen and had led a fateful charge into the French left flank. He remembered the hissing mace that had almost taken his life and the arm that had stopped its path. That arm had belonged to Sir Thomas of Nottingham, who now rode beside his king impassively, gray flecking his beard. Sir Thomas had been born a thatcher, but grew up a strong boy and a good horseman, so his father sent him north to Scotland on raids, and later he went with Edward III to France. That bloody afternoon Sir Thomas had lost his arm to a crushing mace blow, but earned himself a name. Sir Thomas of Nottingham.

When they reached the Frenchmen who were alone on the grass, the Prince saw that they had erected a tent to shade the nobility from the rising sun. There was a tall knight in shining plate armor surrounded by bustling priests. He had wavy blond hair, a smooth chiseled face, and wore a broad smile that did not reach his steely blue eyes. The Prince almost swore at how plump and well fed the priests looked. His men—even the rich knights and retainers that rode with him—were half starved, bestial looking. Their cheeks were caved in, their eyes dull, all hope of escape gone. Most of the English priests had succumbed to thirst and died or disbanded the army. They were not so adept at surviving in hostile land as the soldiers were.

The slight rise a mile behind the Frenchmen swarmed like an anthill with couriers and the more adventurous knights, unofficially heralding the arrival of the French army that was still hidden beyond the treeline. The Prince could hear it, an arrhythmic rumbling of two hundred thousand hooves churning the earth. The hammering throb of war drums pounded into his consciousness incessantly, broken only by an occasional trumpet’s shrill blast. He felt an unfamiliar prickle of fear in his gut.

The blond haired Frenchman bowed low, speaking rapidly in Norman French, the language of the nobility for both Kingdoms. The Prince let the formalities slip through his mind, thinking dully of how to avoid a fight. The first battalions of French chevaliers were appearing from the trees. Sunlight winked and shone off of their plate armor. The Prince thought hollowly that one of their knights was worth three of his in a fight. And the French outnumbered his army forty thousand to less than eight thousand. As a force the French were huge, smothering, and impersonal. They had come for revenge.

“…You may select one hundred champions from your ranks to compete with our hundred. God has seen the hopelessness of your situation, and will smile upon this small mercy,” finished the Frenchman. The Prince looked at him scornfully.

“What is your name?” he asked bluntly.

“As I have said, my name is Geoffrey de Charny, son of—”

“’The perfect knight,’” mocked Sir Thomas. Geoffrey turned to face him, face cold.

“It would be in your interest, sir, to learn what you can from me so that you remember what a man is like when you go home to England and take a sheep as your wife and squat in the same mud you were born in,” Geoffrey said icily. Sir Thomas rebuked him with a foul, elaborate insult that only could have been engendered in the backstreets of Nottingham. The Prince allowed himself a slight smile as Geoffrey’s face reddened.

“I think Sir Thomas has made our intensions quite clear, Sir Geoffrey. As for your suggestion, we do not have the necessary amount of horses. Nor do I trust your King.”

“King Jean?” asked Geoffrey dubiously.

“What honor does a king have when he sends me a mere chevalier with which to parley?” Geoffrey stiffened slightly, but did not reply. He felt disgusted in the presence of these filthy, half starved Englishmen. But he had a mission from the king, and intoned his message with all the respect he could muster.



Robbie sat, exhausted in the dust, his arms covered in bruises and scrapes from dragging the timber to make a ragged palisade, part of which he leaned against wishing there was a single skin of water left in the army. Alfred had collapsed during the labor, and now lay next to Robbie breathing shallowly and trying not to drift back into unconsciousness. His face was swollen from where he had fallen and hit a smooth stone. Like every other archer in the English army, he had long since licked the moisture from his cracked lips. Robbie thought he looked like a corpse.

“Sweet Jesus…” whispered an archer. There had been moaning and swearing on and off all day, but there was something in the man’s voice this time…Robbie turned himself around and peered over the edge of the low palisade and his blood ran cold. Thousands of men spilled from the dark forest beyond the little white tent where their Prince bought them time to rest and fortify the hill. Robbie had never dreamed of so many people in one place. It was a vast horde of assembled chivalry. Wave after amorphous wave came out of the woods, hundreds of banners fluttering energetically in the breeze. Spears and lances made a veritable thicket that blackened the earth and hid the ranks behind. Armor glittered like so many stars, and the army set the archers’ bows shivering on the ground which quaked with foreboding man-made tremors.  The pride of all France, her deadly jewel lusting for revenge, had arrived.

Raoul de Coucy was led through the cool wood on a shivering paint mare that had belonged to the archer he had beheaded. Blood had sheeted down its emaciated sides and dried in caked gore. Sir Hugh rode confidently ahead of him on his warhorse, not looking back. He knew Raoul wouldn’t run. If he tried to escape his honor and name would be forfeit; he had been defeated fairly and the code of chivalry decreed he come quietly with Sir Hugh. His hands were not bound, and he could have easily spurred into the deep swaying foliage, leaving his captors behind in one lighting quick burst. His hands shook with humiliation. His throat was parched, but he knew better than to ask for a drink from the wrinkled waterskin that flopped morosely beside Sir Hugh’s saddle.

Presently, weaving through the trees they could hear the rhythm of the war drums. Raoul thought he could hear the massive tramping of thousands of shod hooves on turf, and smiled wryly. He would not be a prisoner much longer. Sir Hugh turned around. To Raoul’s surprise, he was grinning wolfishly. There was a manic glint in his eye Raoul had never seen in a man before. God, how the English loved to fight. They were animals, these men, and as though to confirm his thought, Raoul looked up at a flitting shadow and saw a filthy archer crouching on an oak limb fifty feet above the ground with an arrow on the string. The archer grinned toothlessly at him and nodded sardonically. They had entered the wagon camp. The wagons were sorry conglomerations of roughly hewn wood beams and unshaven twigs and sticks. They were piled so high with chests of gold coins, silver crosses, jewelry, weapons, armor, skins, and aging barrels of wine that the axels of the wagons creaked dangerously under the weight. Raoul felt a lump in his throat on seeing the riches of his country packed haphazardly into English carts to be chopped up and sold in the sewage ridden streets of London. The camp followers, the soldiers’ surviving women, children and blacksmiths hurried about with grumbling oxen, trying to form the wagons into a protective circle. Raoul felt an uncharacteristic hatred for them as he saw the childish fear in each of their disease marked faces, the way they shivered with terror beneath their torn rags of tunics and shirts. They had nurtured the Goddamns as they murdered and burned across France in their chevauchée. They had fed this monster, this ungodly force of inferior men, allowing it to leech the beauty and wealth France into its greedy belly. Let them all die.

         The Black Prince was reminded irresistibly of a tourney when the two champions come together, salute, and embrace, and turn to their lady who sits in the crowd waiting for honorable bloodshed as he nodded briskly at Sir Geoffrey and jumped athletically onto the back of his black destrier. Sir Geoffrey looked surprised; the prince was wearing over sixty pounds of battle armor. The Prince looked back on last time, coldly resplendent in the painted black plate armor that gave him his name. The French army had slowed and now reached the edge of the saddle’s plateau that sloped up to the English hill. Sir Geoffrey turned away with a cold smile and looked east to the great vineyards of Poitiers that stretched for leafy miles, unharvested and heavy with grapes. Everything would be as it was once the English were gone. France was his lady, and he would make her proud this day.

         The Prince’s heart was heavy in his chest. He had tried everything he could while keeping his dignity intact to prevent a battle. He had even offered to return the cities of Calais and Guines, something he had no authority to do. But King Jean’s intensions were clear: to slaughter every Englishman that stood in front of him so that there would never be another invasion. The Prince knew now battle was inexorable, and an iron fist of melancholy clenched his heart as he realized his people would be vanquished. He struggled for a moment to comprehend the number of lives under his command, but it only deepened his depression and he cursed his own weakness. He would have his army make such an end as to be worthy of remembrance. So he put his head down, the old fire returning to his heart, and galloped up the hill soon to be slick with the blood of his people.