#5
Serbia, April 1419 AD
The abrupt path had been furrowed by early spring rains and stones were rolling under Father Gorny’s feet. He was sweating and paused a minute. Air was clear and still, albeit a little cold. The shining whiteness of blossoming apple trees was splitting bright sun light into immaterial shrouds. Dewdrops were glittering like thousands tears on the young green grass that carpeted the hill’s side up to Gimnec’s manor. He noticed that those orchards would have strongly benefited some care. But Gimnec did not have enough serfs left to take care of it. He sighed and reluctantly resumed his climbing, keeping his distance from the small crumbling wall bordering the track road.
Father Gorny finally arrived in the manor’s courtyard. The place was clean, with some holes recently filled in with gravel and earth. Probably Lena’s work. The building itself was robust and obviously in a good shape, thanks to Piotr, but the dependencies were not that lucky, with the exception of the stables, of course. No Gimnec would have allowed a horse to live in indignant conditions. Some hens cackled loudly from a collapsed storeroom.
He was half-way in the courtyard when a sudden noise boomed behind him, a bit like a hoarse horn. But Father Gorny was prepared. He grabbed his heavy walking stick with both hands and quickly whirled to face the danger. He wielded his weapon, St George ready to fight the Dragon. Just in time to hit a big angry gander and avoid being bitten in the bum. The infernal beast beat a retreat, still yelling. Gorny knew the fight was over, for now. But he would have to watch his steps when exiting the house. He’ll be expected by a spiteful scuppered creature.
He was standing in front of the door, but apparently no one had noticed the upheaval. Gimnec was getting hard of hearing and Lena was probably out. Gorny waited almost two minutes, arm raised, struck with apprehension. But there was no reason to delay any further, no matter how hard and painful his task. He knocked. A few seconds went and passed, then Gimnec’s voice shouted:
“Come in, whoever you are, come in, it’s open.”
Father Gorny pushed the door. He decided to let it wide open and stepped in the dark main room. The old baron was flabbily sitting in his wooden armchair by the hearth. His bandaged right leg lying on a stool. His gout must have worsened badly. Gorny came to him and tried to adopt a cheerful voice to greet him. But it wasn’t convincing, not even for his own ears.
“Ah, welcome, Father. As you see, I was meditating by those cold embers.
- Yes, meditation is a good occupation, the priest nodded.
- Bah, to tell the truth, I’m just boring to death like the old ruin I am.
- You’re getting bitter.”
This was merely an observation and the tone wasn’t exactly comforting either.
“Ah, are you just paying me a visit of courtesy and compassion or what?
- Good Lord, I wish I was.”
The old baron stared intently at the priest’s face. Something suddenly obscured his eyes, but his own expression didn’t change.
“Where has it happened?”
The priest recited a silent payer. For some weird reason, he was relieved that Gimnec had understood all by himself. He tried to keep an even and mild voice.
“They fought in Kossovo-Polje.”
Lord Gimnec jolted in intense surprise, but he progressively reddened and frowned:
“Pray tell me you’re not jocking!”
The priest did expect some reaction, but not such an insinuation.
“No, my old friend, it’s no joke. Our army fought in Kossovo-Polje. We’ve been defeated.”
Gimnec eased off. Sadness and incomprehension washing anger away.
“That’s crazy. Was it another stupid idea from our king?
- His last one, indeed. He wanted a revenge for the first battle of Kossovo-Polje. I don’t have many details for you, unfortunately.”
Gimnec stared in the void and whispered:
“I can give you the details.”
The priest said nothing, but sat down and tried to revive the embers. Clearly, the baron was half dreaming, just as if he was trying to keep the actual realisation of the tragedy at bay.
“The army had been assembled in Raska, each knight and lord having brought a few followers and some equipment with him. He has arrived from Novi-Pazar under Duke Radovnic’s banner. The big camp was an enormous mess with people moving everywhere in an apparent chaos. It looked like a trade fair without jugglers and many soldiers. Each company was dealing with its own organisation. He was disoriented and so afraid to get lost that he kept the closest he could from the Duke’s banner bearers. Men were sent to surrounding farms in order to forage some more food, while Raska prudently kept its doors closed. In the evening, soldiers erected a myriad of campfires at the outskirts of the town. He tried to chat with older men around, but quickly understood that he would get only rumours and nasty stories from them. He felt rejected. Those men were obviously unwilling to get things any more personal. In fact the place was an agglomerate of isolated small groups ignoring each others. Hanging with men from Novi-Pazar, he still managed to get some hot food and a few bits of contradictory information.
They were expecting to stay in that camp for about a week, but orders were dispatched the very next day and he had to help the duke’s company to pack everything on wagons. He quickly understood that his young age and low rank in the nobility would allow any average noble or experienced soldier to treat him like a servant. In spite of the apparent mess, they hit the road less than a couple of hours later. To be easy with his mount, he decided to walk rather than ride and simply let her carry his luggage. They headed up the old city of Pristina to meet with the king’s army and help defend the capital. Rumours said that no one knew where the enemy really was, because of the huge toll scouts had to pay for every wee bit of intelligence gathering. He even once caught a frightened light rider telling they were chased like rabbits.
He felt a growing agitation in the marching mass of men in the morning of the third day, when they took the small road down to Obilic instead of Pristina. The word spread that Pristina had already fallen to the enemy. Others said that the Turcs had been spotted right to the south. Of course no one really knew. A little before noon, a wave of panic ran through the column. He heard sentinels shouting “Turks!” and saw archers and crossbowmen hurry to back up the flanks. He didn’t actually see those Turcoman raiders and the fight did not last long. A few men had been wounded by arrows and one enemy shot down thanks to a lucky bolt. Several other similar raids occurred throughout the afternoon. Casualties remained insignificant, but each time, the column had been disorganised and the morale was terrible. Serbian light cavalry wasn’t able to pursue the assailants without sustaining heavy losses and quickly settled for keeping them away from the bulk of the army as much as possible.
He was tired, his clothes and skin soaked with a layer of sweat dampened dust. But in the afternoon, orders were given to walk even faster and unrest was growing as everyone wildly tried to guess the reasons for such a hurry on this mere rutted trail. At about four o’clock, a cloud of dust progressively appeared to the East and officers trotted down the column to inform everyone that they were about to meet with the king and his host. In the evening, the two armies met in Kosovo-Polje and he was rather impressed by the heavy knights that led the other one. They didn’t wear their armours, of course, but were still massive and unbowed. Finally, he could as well understand why they had to sustain such a crazy pace. The Turkish troops were just finishing their crossing of the Pristevka. Serbian commanders had obviously hoped to stop them on the ford. Too late.
The sun was already a little low on the horizon and given the disorganisation of the troops, nothing would be achieved this day. He was ordered to help mount tents, build up rough barriers and finally had some time to attend his horse. Crossbowmen were dispatched to fire at Turcomans raiders, should they try to harass the camp. The whole day had been a noisy hell of metal clanks, grinding wheels and shouts. His ears were still resonating in the relative silence. The night was long, with constant movements in the camp and the growing smell of fear. He progressively discovered it was contagious as his bowels started to fidget and hurt. He finally had a couple hours of agitated sleep before sergeants moved through the camp, kicking everyone awake. Turkish drums were beating. He first had to find some place to relieve his ill insides, along with many other soldiers if the foul stench bathing the camp could be trusted. He had a bad time eating some porridge and finally began to equip his horse and gear himself with his iron breastplate and leather garments. Dawn was near in a cloudless sky and he could see here and there knights being equipped with their plates and helped on their war mounts. Turkish drums were still relentlessly beating.
Each host gathered, riders, archers, soldiers and peasants in the same crowd. King’s men were running everywhere, trying to dismantle those groups and organise separate divisions. Some high ranked nobles were unwilling to cooperate, but most of them saw the obvious benefit and happily gave up their privileges for efficiency. He was detached to a light cavalry unit under the second son from a high ranked family. They trotted away from the eastern flank of the army and soon were able to see the Turks already positioned to the South. They had no heavies from what could be seen. But they were many. Too many, he thought. Serbian army was in motion, knights going ahead with their squires and followed by a mass of various footmen.
His unit moved at a relatively moderate pace and he took some time to examine the enemy. They had put a bulk of light infantry in the front, heavier Ghazi soldiers to guard their flanks with bucklers and axes and he could see janissaries massed to the rear, most probably with the sultan. He quickly understood the mission he would have to fulfil with the light cavalry: threaten the eastern Turkish flank to prevent janissaries from flanking a front charge by the knights. He was not sure what to think about that, but he had no say anyway. He looked back at the serbian army and saw the king in first line, visibly trying to restrain the other knights. A few of them still suddenly thrust toward the enemy and the whole of them began to charge. “
But we’ve not reached our position yet!” he thought. His commander quickly shouted “Gallop!” and launched his horse forward. “
That’s crazy! Our steeds will be exhausted even before we begin to actually charge!”. His stomach shrank and a shiver ran through his whole body. His mount felt the fear as well as the vibrations in the ground from the heavy cavalry charge. He had to put all his attention to keep her in hands and did not see a widespread detachment of turcomans horse archers rushing toward his company. When the commander ordered the charge, everyone turned towards Turkish lines and spurred.
He tried his best to stay in their commander’s trail. Their rushing arrowhead was so compact that he would have been able to take his neighbour’s hand. Suddenly, a nearby rider swerved and brutally rolled down with his horse. That’s when he finally looked around and caught a small dispersed group of Turcomans galloping on their side and pounding them with arrows. Their charge did not slow down. He heard a yell behind and the sound of another rider falling, quickly followed by a second one who had probably stumbled on the first. He literally stretched himself on his mount. Several arrows flied around. His neighbours were farther now and still moving away. The janissaries had inflected their trajectory to face the attackers and slowly trotted toward them.
By the time of the clash, his nearest ally was about five meters from him. Ghazis footmen were running in the melee. He stabbed all around at random, probably inflicting some superficial injuries. His mount was panicked and reared up, kicking what could be kicked. He had to stick himself to his whirling horse to avoid a spear and took the opportunity to thrust his sword at a nearby janissary. He felt the blade pushing through a chain mail, perhaps piercing a belly. But he had no time to check it out as his horse’s volte went longer than expected and ended up with both the horse and the rider on the ground. The poor beast had got his neck torn apart. He tried to free his left hand from the reins but had it twisted in the fall. Yelling under the pain, he barely managed to keep his sword and raised on his knees. Just in time to see a bloody axe flying up to his head. He threw himself back. It was a bit too late. He felt a hard hit on his chin and his helmet went up, digging its way through his face.
Small green spots appeared like glow-worms of rapidly growing numbers and size. They quickly filled his view and darkness followed them. He never felt the ground. He awoke a few seconds later. Pain welcomed him. His head was nothing but a sphere of pain, with a blade of fire running through his face. He still managed to notice a rough couch under him and nearby men speaking in an unknown language. Then he heard blackbirds singing…”
Gimnec interrupted his tale in a dying whisper. Father Gorny fidgeted on his chair, uncertain, wondering what to do. Then Gimnec croaked:
“No… No blackbird this time…”
The old man leaned toward the chess board and put a black knight down. Father Gorny took his hand and pressed it. The baron’s eyes were veiled immobile things in a face boiling with uncontrollable tics.
“Please my friend, the old man muttered, leave me now.”
The priest shook his head and stood.
“I’ll be back Sunday in the afternoon. Take care of yourself.”
He left the room as quickly as possible without giving the impression of rushing out. He shut the door and took a deep breath, bathing his eyelids in the sun. A faint sob came from the inside. He walked away But a loud horn shrieked just as he passed by the collapsed storeroom and he painfully felt a vicious beak biting his calf.