Bohemund fidgeted under his master, the great steed stamping his hooves and moving side to side in imitation as Sir Edward’s own agitation communicated itself to his mount. It was hardly a good message to be sending to the men who patiently waited all around him as they gazed across the broken field ahead of them at the army the Vallarese had tried to sneak through the Wald.
The days following Murk’s death had not been pleasant ones for the young captain, and the demands on his time were not allowing him to grieve for his fallen friend. They had not been wasted days however, as Duke Felix struck like lightning when his former squire had delivered word of what had occurred within the Wald. Fearing that either Sir Clement or Sir Eva’s forces had been crushed he had mounted a force and led it personally in a wide sweep through the forest, collecting Sir Edward and his ready to hand men in one go and driving the Vallarese from the trees like beaters hounding game towards the King’s hunting stands. The stealth force had been forced to retreat against the overwhelming force that the Duke could bring to bear. Two thousand lances, all mounted on good steeds with at least two spares plus their pack animals made a wall their foes just could not surmount. Three days of hard riding through the difficult terrain had led them on to the Vallarese plains of the south, and a further day of chasing the foe brought them together with the remnants of Sir Clement’s army.
The junior Captain had been unaware of the approaching Vallarese until too late, but fast action and a cool head trumped panic and his own blade had cut his force free, salvaging a full three hundred lances and allowing them to break through the blockade on their camp. He was reputed to have been the point of the wedge that charged the Vallarese and the last man to break contact once his forces were through and they had fought a rearguard action for more than a week to maintain the distance between them and the foe. They joined the main army, although Sir Edward thought they all looked exhausted enough to drop, and even a week on the run had resulted in them looking like starved scarecrows. With their arrival however came the news of what had happened and with it a more complete picture of the war in southern Vallar.
The siege of Rivoli had been lifted by an army composed of mercenary companies from all the southern cities. It was the best and worst news possible for the Imperial army all in one go, the worst because they could no longer snap up individual cities one by one unhindered like a wolf taking stray sheep, but it was the best because the Vallarese would finally be brave enough to commit to a field battle, and a decisive victory in the field was exactly what the Duke needed.
Sir Clement found his nephew in camp, two nights after they had rejoined the main army, despite being less than a mile apart, with the sheer volume of men and women in the camp it took time for anyone to find anyone. Clem found Edward sitting on his saddle with his back to the tent, sewing his arming cote. As far as the older knight could see one of the grommets that held the leg harness had torn through and his former squire was doing his best to coax the edges back together. Edward’s second squire, William, stood at the edge of the firelight uncertainty on his face and a hesitance in his step. Sir Clement put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “go get some rest lad, or see your friends, I’ll take care of your Lord tonight,” the Knight smiled encouragingly as William bowed.
“Of course my lord,” he said in relief and rushed off behind the pavilion to wrap himself in his blankets. Clem shook his head as he watched the boy leave, every squire’s nightmare was dealing with a bereaved master, for men were mercurial creatures and young William was still uncertain of his place within his Lord’s household, even after serving for four years as his squire.
Sir Clement turned his attentions to his morose former squire and sat himself down opposite, after helping himself to Edward’s wine and a pair of cups, “I thought I’d find you moping here,” he told the younger man as he handed across one of the cups with a liberal helping of the fine Luccan vintage. His light tone belied the sharpness of his eyes as he took in every detail of the young knight before him, from the dark circles under his eyes to the haphazardness of his lacings down the front of his cote, “William clearly needs more instruction on how to dress you too, or is this young Cuthbert’s work?”
Edward frowned at his Uncle’s sallies and shook his head, “I dressed myself this morning, I did not want the boys to suffer my dark moods,” he finally answered, accepting the wine but not meeting the other man’s eye.
“Well that is very noble of you, but you look a state and I do believe the boys could help,” Sir Clement sighed as he raised his cup in salute, “we all mourn Murk, he had the potential to be a fine knight, you did good work with him, but we can’t bring him back, what do you think he’d say if he could see you now?” There was a hard edge in Clem’s tone as he looked his nephew over, “your men need you, they trust in you, don’t let that trust falter.” It was not unkindly said, and it was more words than Edward had heard from his Uncle in a long while. Tears had already formed on the young knight’s cheeks and he dashed them away with one wool covered arm.
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“Forgive me my lord, I am unmanned.”
“That’s crap,” Clem said as he moved to be beside his nephew and threw an arm about him, “there is nothing to be ashamed of in feeling grief, especially for one who served you so loyally for so long, but in this life we lose men, but we can’t allow such grief to be all consuming, especially men like us who wield considerable temporal power as well as martial,” Uncle and Nephew sat together in silence for some time as Clem let Edward feel his grief unopposed for some minutes, tears falling in a way they had not been able to for days. It still amazed Clement how he could so easily forget how young Edward was, there were moments when he seemed like a seasoned captain and campaigner and then there were moments such as this when he would see the youthful boy at his core. When he felt the boy had cried himself dry he spoke again, “I have had a letter from my father, I’m sure you have as well, once this action is done and the Vallarese are in retreat for the winter, I am returning to Arturia, choose a retinue and we will go together, time away from all the blood and shit will do you good, besides, I hear our most gracious uncle is hosting a Grand Tournament at the capital, and fighting against worthy knights for nothing more than honour sounds a damn sight better than waging war just now.” Edward nodded numbly at his Uncle’s words and in them he saw truth.
“I want to go home, see Bordeaux again,” he mumbled to his Uncle.
“Alright, go to bed, get some sleep and tomorrow we’ll punish them a little for Murk alright?” Clem rose and with a last hug shoved his nephew towards the tent flap. Where he saw a smiling Cuthbert laying out his lord’s clothes for the next day, with freshly laundered arming hose.
So it came to pass that Edward sat astride his mighty Bohemund and watched the phalanx of the Vallarese move toward them like a rising tide. He felt a little detached as he observed the mercenaries form up in their various companies with a decidedly critical eye. They were good, but it was painfully obvious that there was no cohesion between the companies, something that Duke Felix had stressed since their first day in camp. So large gaps showed between the bodies of men and women and Edward thought this might be the reason he and his men had been sent to the far left, all mounted, leaving his archers behind to serve with Sir Clement under Sir Gerald as his corporal.
William sat easily on his own brand new warhorse behind Edward a lance in hand and ready to ride as a member of the front ranks for the first time. Sir Richard, who Edward hadn’t seen in years, rode up with Clement’s banner, “Lord de Marche, good to see you,” the knight bowed in his saddle with a smile to the young man he had supported in his early days.
“Sir Richard, good to see you as well, what word do you bring from my Uncle?” He asked, skipping the pleasantries, although a smile did almost tug at the corners of his lips.
“Not your uncle, but the Duke sends word, he doesn’t think this flank will commit, they’re unpaid and none too happy with certain things happening in their camp, if they advance just run at them and let them break, then close the flank and we’ll roll them up,” the older knight saluted and rode back the way he had come to continue spreading the word. Edward meanwhile steeled himself and took a firmer grip on his reins, advancing his steed so that he could address the entirety of his command.
“Alright lads, you heard him, an easy fight with plenty of loot and ransoms,” that got a good growl out of the men, honour was one thing amongst nobles and knights, but loot and money won a soldier’s heart, the sound warmed Edward some and he looked at the line of Vallarese and his heart rose when he saw that they had begun to advance, “I’ll give a hundred ducats to the first man through their line, they won’t hold, so ride through them and let them run,” he wheeled Bohemund to face front and slammed his visor down, “en avant mes braves!” He shouted.
Hooves thundered on the ground and clods of earth and grass were thrown out behind them, it was a truly awe inspiring sight as the two armies came together as though all the cooks in all the world had taken out their best pots and pans to smash together. The first lances came down and Edward sighted his target with practiced ease. They were the common style of mercenary that the city states of Vallar favoured, lightly armoured men with crossbows and giant shields. They were hell for the archers but fantastic targets for the men at arms. When a livery arrow hit one of those shields it would drive into the wood but the penetrative power was usually spent and it was a lucky archer who could claim to have even pinked an arm or the like through them, but a lance at the charge wouldn’t just go through, but shatter the arm and likely the body of whoever tried to stand against it. So it was when Edward’s lance hit the first poor bastard’s shield, the blade point of the twelve foot weapon drove clean through the shield and man both, layers of mail, wool and muscle doing nothing to stop it, and fully half the shaft snapped off leaving the man screaming under the ruins of his shield.
The company passed through the shattered line like the scythe through the summer wheat. The Vallarese scattered heedless of their Captain’s call for them to stand, and Edward had to agree that they were likely unpaid, no point in fighting for someone who couldn’t pay you. He drew his sword across his body after allowing the stump of his lance to fall. The blade circled above his head as Edward called his men to order, letting the mercenaries about them run for it, looking at the state of their kit, they weren’t worth a ransom anyway. Not all mercenaries were created equal and the more Edward developed his own company the more critical he became of those who filled the bottom rungs of the ladder.
The company formed easily on their captain with only a couple of empty saddles to mar the perfection of their long years of practice and drill. The steel clad men at arms and squires and the few Pages who rode alongside them in livery covered black and white coats of plates watched the refuse of their charge run away with the same dispassion of their leader. Sir Edward shook his head as he saw the stronger companies that held the centre of the Vallarese line receive the charge of the Duke and his chosen men, “come on lads, let’s go finish this off.” As a unit they wheeled to face the flank of the Vallarese and moved to action their orders, their as yet still fresh horses getting up to a canter with minimal effort.