Chapter II, Ile St. Martin
Ile St. Martin, Twenty miles from Tours, June 29th 1187
Michael pulled back his chain mail hood and looked out at the river, it was the only barrier on the path home, the Capetian army stood right behind him, its blue banners fluttering in the brisk wind and its Knights armour shining in the golden sun. It was a fresh army no doubt, brought up from Toulouse. The English would have to stand, and the King knew it. The Loire blocked their line of retreat, the bridges were a almost as far away as Tours. Henry would have to win here and he knew it. His head sunk in despair, the campaign was over two weeks ago and he knew, his army was battered and demoralised, most of his Knights had been killed with that fool Suffolk, and Henry’s sons were nowhere to be found. Though at least, they had not turned against him, and to think that Richard would succeed him, after all he had done to his father. The French were moving closer, marching down a small incline and into the fields before them.
Henry was watching the French cavalry splash through a small stream when one of his Knights rode over to him, the rider was covered in sweat, the armour and hot summers day did not treat the Knights well.
“My Liege, the French emissary” the Knight gasped as he reigned his horse in. The King nodded gravely, if they were terms, they would be harsh.
The French emissary galloped towards the King, the French Royal standard held aloft.
“From France?” The King inquired wearily
“From him, and thus he greets your Majesty” The Emissary announced grandly, the smirk on his face was unmistakable.
“My King does demand, that in exchange for you safety you do rightful homage to him as King of France and acknowledge his mastery over this Kingdom of France, if you agree to these most generous terms, then you and your valiant army may return to England, if however you refuse, not one will leave these fields, and My King shall make you pay homage to him as your lawful King, what say you, King Henry of England?”
“Tell my noble brother of France that we shall bow down to him for lands that we have rightfully been invested in since birth, no tell him that we will fight, and that his and our Knights will both stain the ground red” The Kings eyes stared out at the emissary, the Frenchman bowed his head in return and rode back to the French lines that were arraying before the English.
The Earl of Exeter rode up to the King, he was a thin man, in contrast to the King, and naturally sharp face that made him look neither kind nor saintly.
“What are your plans sire?” The Earl asked, looking out at the French
“What can we plan for Exeter? Just hold the ground we stand on”
“Yes my liege” Exeter grimaced and returned to his levy
Henry looked over his army, it was battered, diseased and tired, but Henry was no better, he was fifty four now, no longer a young man, was he still the same person that had crushed Ireland, or defeated Scotland at the battle of Alnwick? This battle would tell him. The King spurred his horse down towards the English lines, archers were stringing their longbows, Men at Arms gave confession and the Knights organised their levies. It was foolish of him to go to war, he knew that now, but Richard needed to be swayed from an alliance with Phillipe of France, he had to be shown his father was still a force on the continent, but this war might show the exact opposite, the one victory on this accursed campaign was pyrrhic at best, and now this. Maybe Richard would be right to rebel.
Michael pulled his mail coif over his black hair and planted his helm firmly atop his head, he stretched out his arms and checked over last piece of his chain mail armour, satisfied with the arrangement he stepped up to the warhorse and slid his foot into the stirrup and vaulted into the saddle. Geoffrey, his squire handed him his shield, three white flowers sat upon a black background divided by a golden chevron, he weighed the shield and pushed his arm through the leather handles and gripped the reins of the horse.
“Go on Geoffrey, back to the lines” Michael twisted his neck trying to attain some comfort from his armour.
The French began to advance, the French nobility leading, impetuous in its desire to destroy the English army.
Michael spurred his horse to join the remaining English Knights and the King, it was Henry’s wish to strike a decisive blow and defeat Phillipe personally, it was the only chance they had of victory.
The French came closer still, the Knights thundered across the summery fields of Tourraine, The King drew his sword and his Knights followed suit, the English archers notched their bows and prepared to loose them at the oncoming enemy.
The arrows whipped through the air and tore into the French ranks, few fell and the horses came closer. The King spurred his charger and Michael stabbed his heels into his, the English Knights took off and charged across the fields.
The first contact was always the worst, a shattering crash accompanied the clash of the two sides, the galloping of horses replaced by the sound of steel against steel. Michael followed his horse through the melee, he threw his shield forward to deflect an oncoming lance blow, another knight drew up on his right but was de-horsed by an English lance, Michael pulled his own horse round and struck a French Knight across the neck, the force of the blow slung the man from his horse, Michael was now an island in a swirling melee, infantry and cavalry clashed, Knights stabbed down at foot soldiers and foot soldiers pulled knights from their horses and murdered them.
Michael threw his sword up and parried a downward blow, he pushed his sword back against the Frenchman and threw him off guard, Michael’s riposte battered into the mans shield and he pulled back for another stroke, striking again in the same place, the sword splintered the top half of the Frenchman’s shield and cut into his skull. Michael wrenched the blade free, quickly turned his head and attempted to take stock of the situation. Both armies were fully committed to the fight, if the French had reserves they were hidden far away, but the disparity in numbers was telling, the French were beginning to surround them and parts of the English line were breaking. Another sword blow, another shield parry, Michael swung his sword towards the Frenchman’s head but he had already ridden past.
“Henry is dead!, the King is dead!” The lone voice signalled chaos, at its cry the English line faltered and started to crumble.
Michael cursed inwardly and sought a way out of the melee, the French were pouring through the gaps in the line, rider less horses followed their instincts and galloped after them, the English ran, though they had no destination, another horsemen rode towards Michael, the Frenchman swung high, Michael ducked underneath and thrust his sword into the horses neck, the beast cried out in agony and thrashed its legs against the ground before collapsing bringing the Frenchman with it, Michael jammed his spurs into his own horse and made for the Loire, it was wide no doubt, but rain had been thin this summer and there were sandbanks dotted along, with his horse Michael could make it across the river, and alive.
Michael stabbed his heels into the horse, willing it to go ever faster, the English soldiers were scattered across the fields, some began to swim the river, others hid, the unlucky were cut down by French cavalry, the lucky were captured for ransom, Michael would have no such luck, his family barely had the money to pay for his armour, let alone a ransom.
Michael broke from the pack and made it to the river, the water was fast flowing, though thankfully not too deep, he prepared to cross when a soldier stumbled up behind him, Michael pulled the horse to face the man and readied his sword.
“My liege!” Michael cried out in disbelief
The man panted, but kept his eyes behind him, “It’s you isn’t it, Knight, you stood up to Suffolk”
Michael vaulted off his horse and hurried over to Henry, his red hair was caked in sweat, his helm discarded on the battle with his shield and sword.
“Take my horse, noble King, there is a bridge several miles east of here” Michael threw his shield on the ground and pulled off his helmet.
Henry gripped the reins and vaulted onto the horse. “I shall not forget this, what his your name?”
“I am Michael Woodhouse, of Lancaster, son of Peter” Michael bowed his head, it occurred to him it may not be the time for such formalities, but the old ways died hard.
“If you escape this, come to Rouen, I shall not see you unrewarded, Fare Well, Michael” The King bowed his head gently and spurred the horse and rode off to the east. Michael began to tear off his chain mail and throw it upon the floor, there went his money, lost in a French river bank, he could not however, leave his sword, it was too precious.
And then, Michael plunged into the water of the Loire like so many others around him, the going was hard, the water cold, at points he regretted taking the sword for it so pulled him down into the icy depths. The water flooded his woollen clothes and weighed them down, but at last he reached the muddy river bank and dragged himself up on the shore. Michael gasped for air, his legs ached and his arms shook from exhaustion, he wanted to collapse onto the grass and lay there for hours, instead he scrambled up to the field, and began to run as hard as he could towards the tree line. He glanced behind him, the French weren’t crossing the river, but were going east towards King Henry and the bridge, Michael wondered if his sacrifice had all been in vain. It didn’t take him long to reach the thin wood separating the field from the rest of France and when he felt suitably hidden amongst the sporadic shadows he collapsed against a thick tree trunk and began to laugh.