I can't help but sympathise with the constable here.phargle said:
I haven't read that vivid descriptions of scenery in a historical story since I read Dumas. Well done phargle, I'll definitely follow this one all through.
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I haven't read that vivid descriptions of scenery in a historical story since I read Dumas. Well done phargle, I'll definitely follow this one all through.
So uh, I'm not very good at biblical matters but is the destroyer like the reaper or more like an angel of sorts (he doesn't sound very evil to me actually).
EDIT.
That's extremely high praise. I wouldn't say it's that good, but I definitely like it very much.
EDIT.
That's extremely high praise. I wouldn't say it's that good, but I definitely like it very much.
I have to say phargle, your Knud Knýtling AAR was one of those rare things on the internet that actually had me laughing aloud. I re-read the first couple dozen or so posts probably twice a year, and its still funny.
But I'm also glad to see you doing something in a completely different style, and I'm happily following this one.
But I'm also glad to see you doing something in a completely different style, and I'm happily following this one.
CatKnight said:
Blimey, you're right! And I didn't even realize it! Good job! :rofl:
demokratickid, I hope it is good rather than will be good. 
CatKnight, yes, this is the Battle of Agincourt from my own game. EU3 has its own ideas about this sort of thing, and so do I. Things don't work out quite as history wrote it, and I tacked on a plot on top of that.
Snugglie, thank you for the incredible praise. I like the loose, yet detailed descriptions and hope they don't wear out their welcome. And the constable is right, as you have noted. Oh, and I am glad you made it over from my last AAR. I am hoping to see more alumnis of that one visit!
Qorten, I can't say much more than "thanks for keeping me humble" without giving anything away. I'm curious what other musings you or others have about the angle you pointed out.
daemonofdecay, please forgive the lack of comedy in this one. . . it's kind of an anti-Knud, which I am delighted that you liked. I hope you like this one too.
Thanks for the warm response, EU3-land. You're making me feel very welcome.
Update ready. It's a battle scene. I'll post it sometime tomorrow.
CatKnight, yes, this is the Battle of Agincourt from my own game. EU3 has its own ideas about this sort of thing, and so do I. Things don't work out quite as history wrote it, and I tacked on a plot on top of that.
Snugglie, thank you for the incredible praise. I like the loose, yet detailed descriptions and hope they don't wear out their welcome. And the constable is right, as you have noted. Oh, and I am glad you made it over from my last AAR. I am hoping to see more alumnis of that one visit!
Qorten, I can't say much more than "thanks for keeping me humble" without giving anything away.
I'm curious what other musings you or others have about the angle you pointed out.daemonofdecay, please forgive the lack of comedy in this one. . . it's kind of an anti-Knud, which I am delighted that you liked. I hope you like this one too.
Thanks for the warm response, EU3-land. You're making me feel very welcome.
Update ready. It's a battle scene. I'll post it sometime tomorrow.
Henry.
Henry
A crash of arms broke Henry's sword at the hilt, sending the blade spinning into the mud. The impact sent the king staggering and he lost his balance, and he was forced to the ground when his attacker pressed the advantage. Another French man-at-arms, armed with a heavy axe and covered in steel armor, followed. Henry grabbed the first man's helmet and pulled down hard, bringing his armored knee up into his foe's face. Blood burst through the man's visor, spraying Henry as the helmet bounced away from the blow. The other fighter with the axe saw that he could not swing without hitting his friend, so he hesitated; that gave Henry a moment to draw a breath and climb to his feet. Releasing his grip on the dazed fighter he had just wounded and ignoring the new pain in his own knee, he let the man fall to the ground and faced off against his new enemy.
"Humphrey! Sword!" the king bellowed, his hoarse voice carrying over the cacophony of combat surrounding him. Humphrey, the young Duke of Gloucester, was fighting nearby, and he tossed a blade to his liege, nodding once before returning to the fray. Henry caught the sword deftly. A sharp cry echoed from the left and the newly re-armed king whirled on his enemy. He grabbed the haft of the axe, locked his own sword arm, shoulder and hip, and stepped into the attack. The Frenchman slammed into the blade and the sword burst through the mail gap in his armor. Henry saw the man's eyes up close as he held them there for three heartbeats while metal rings and dark blood sprinkled onto the ground. On the fourth, the Frenchman swooned and fell. Pulling the sword free from the dead man, he turned to the first fighter, still rolling on the ground in pain, and ran him through.
It had been like this since dawn. The French had attacked with overwhelming force, routing Henry's archers in the woods and forcing his center to advance to avoid being picked apart at a distance. The slog through the deadly sleet of arrows almost ended the battle at dawn, but the English managed to get close enough for melee. Fighting across the muddy defile had been murderous to both sides, and the French had the advantage in numbers; that would begin to tell, and Henry knew it.
The Duke of Gloucester fell back from the line and approached Henry. The duke looked perhaps twenty-five years old, and had a brown mixture of mud and blood on his slim face. Worry and pain contorted what would otherwise be handsome features. "My liege, we must withdraw," he gasped between breaths. "We've stood our ground, but the day is lost." The sound of fighting so close to the two men almost made the conversation impossible.
Henry nodded. "York?" he asked.
"Dead," Gloucester shouted. "On the rearguard." The young man's eyes flickered a second, the barest indication of sympathy. "If we get out now, we might have a chance, but it is bad."
Henry nodded again. "The battle started on their terms. By God, let us end it on our own."
The king passed his gaze over the intense fighting only feet from where he stood and looked upon the forest of Agincourt. The woods were thick and would provide the English no easy retreat. There were other options, he thought, but a pain came up in his forehead and Henry flinched away, finding himself for a moment unable to concentrate. He tossed aside his helmet and rubbed his temples to try to clear the fog in front of his eyes. What had been wrong with him today? The morning felt full of promise, but then something occured, something he could not remember. There was a blank spot in his mind where the morning's memories had been. He couldn't recall waking up, nor could he remember preparing a speech appropriate to the desparate situation. He knew the danger everyone faced. The nobles might find survival by being ransomed, but the commoners would have to fight or die. Words could inspire, but when he stood in front of the few that constituted his army earlier that day, he found he had none to say. And yet he had that very morning spent time in prayer and contemplation to prepare. The vaguest memory of a strange visitor flickered at the edge of his consciousness, but then it slipped away and dissolved into nothing. Henry rubbed his forehead again, and then a realization struck him, followed by the sickening certainty that he was only now remembering something important. With a feeling like he was deep beneath water and reaching to the surface, Henry slowly emerged from his sudden fugue.
It was Saint Crispin's Day.
Looking up, Henry saw the Duke of Gloucester speaking to him. The young man looked alarmed.
"My lord king? Sire!" Gloucester cried. "Henry!" He spoke quickly and with force, as if he'd been trying to get the king's attention for some time.
"I am here, Humphrey. We have to get out of here. Now."
"Aye," gasped the duke.
"Something is amiss. The woods are the only way. Don't ask how I know this."
Gloucester nodded quickly and whirled around to call for a retreat, but a French cavalry charge hit the lines at that moment. The area around the king descended into chaos.
John threw himself to the ground as the arrows fell all around him. Many of them were were caught by the trees of Tramecourt; the sound overhead echoed like a perverse parody of hail on a thatched roof. Many more traversed the canopy with deadly precision, and the shrieks and screams of injured and dying men began to snuff out what remained of John's frayed sanity. Nearby, Thomas had also taken cover behind a thick tree, and John could see him cupping his massive hands over his ears. He crawled quickly to the tree and huddled next to his friend. The two sat there, curled up as small as possible while the arrows came down all around them. John counted a dozen arrows to each beat of his hotly-pounding heart, each pained throb sending new waves of burning panic into his aching body. Slowly, like a storm subsiding, the attack slowed. John opened his eyes and saw Walter standing in the open. A feeling like a chill creeping around his neck and throat overcame him in waves.
"I got to get him," he said, his voice shaking in fear. Glancing over at Thomas, he said it again. "I got to get him!"
That notion appeared to alarm Thomas and he shook his head fiercely. Trying in vain to make himself heard over the terror left behind by the initial attack, Thomas started shouting. "Cook!" he bellowed. "Walter Cook!" His voice was a ferocious roar, and he shouted himself hoarse for several mortally-long moments before the arrows started to fall again.
Walter looked dazed. John had seen that happen before, but never to a friend. Urgency drove him into action and he scrambled to his feet. Dodging the arrows that were coming down around him, he rushed to his friend and grabbed him.
The young man blinked at him. His face was white as chalk and John could feel him shaking, but he didn't seem hurt. "John?"
"Walter, get down 'afore you get killed!"
Walter nodded, and then an arrow sliced into John's back. There was a sound like a bundle of twigs snapping as the ribs gave way, and John fell to one knee, his hand pulling free from Walter's tunic. Blood seeped like thick oil from the wound, making the metal head of the arrow seem to disappear. John gritted his teeth, and forced a growl from his throat.
"Get to Thomas!"
Walter stared at his injured friend with wide, unbelieving eyes. His lips were dried and cracked and he shook his head in confusion and denial. Holding up his hands to John, he fled in the other direction, stumbling and falling as he ran. John watched Walter flee until he vanish into the thick of Tramecourt. Pressing a hand tightly over his wound and trying to stand nearly made John faint, but he forced himself to stagger back the way he came. He thought he could still hear Thomas shouting, and even thought he could see the big fellow coming towards him in a run, but then the ribs across his chest erupted in splintered white and splattered red as an arrow caught him, and everything went dark.
Henry
"But we in it shall be forgot
We few, we tragic few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother"
( click for music )We few, we tragic few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother"
A crash of arms broke Henry's sword at the hilt, sending the blade spinning into the mud. The impact sent the king staggering and he lost his balance, and he was forced to the ground when his attacker pressed the advantage. Another French man-at-arms, armed with a heavy axe and covered in steel armor, followed. Henry grabbed the first man's helmet and pulled down hard, bringing his armored knee up into his foe's face. Blood burst through the man's visor, spraying Henry as the helmet bounced away from the blow. The other fighter with the axe saw that he could not swing without hitting his friend, so he hesitated; that gave Henry a moment to draw a breath and climb to his feet. Releasing his grip on the dazed fighter he had just wounded and ignoring the new pain in his own knee, he let the man fall to the ground and faced off against his new enemy.
"Humphrey! Sword!" the king bellowed, his hoarse voice carrying over the cacophony of combat surrounding him. Humphrey, the young Duke of Gloucester, was fighting nearby, and he tossed a blade to his liege, nodding once before returning to the fray. Henry caught the sword deftly. A sharp cry echoed from the left and the newly re-armed king whirled on his enemy. He grabbed the haft of the axe, locked his own sword arm, shoulder and hip, and stepped into the attack. The Frenchman slammed into the blade and the sword burst through the mail gap in his armor. Henry saw the man's eyes up close as he held them there for three heartbeats while metal rings and dark blood sprinkled onto the ground. On the fourth, the Frenchman swooned and fell. Pulling the sword free from the dead man, he turned to the first fighter, still rolling on the ground in pain, and ran him through.
It had been like this since dawn. The French had attacked with overwhelming force, routing Henry's archers in the woods and forcing his center to advance to avoid being picked apart at a distance. The slog through the deadly sleet of arrows almost ended the battle at dawn, but the English managed to get close enough for melee. Fighting across the muddy defile had been murderous to both sides, and the French had the advantage in numbers; that would begin to tell, and Henry knew it.
The Duke of Gloucester fell back from the line and approached Henry. The duke looked perhaps twenty-five years old, and had a brown mixture of mud and blood on his slim face. Worry and pain contorted what would otherwise be handsome features. "My liege, we must withdraw," he gasped between breaths. "We've stood our ground, but the day is lost." The sound of fighting so close to the two men almost made the conversation impossible.
Henry nodded. "York?" he asked.
"Dead," Gloucester shouted. "On the rearguard." The young man's eyes flickered a second, the barest indication of sympathy. "If we get out now, we might have a chance, but it is bad."
Henry nodded again. "The battle started on their terms. By God, let us end it on our own."
The king passed his gaze over the intense fighting only feet from where he stood and looked upon the forest of Agincourt. The woods were thick and would provide the English no easy retreat. There were other options, he thought, but a pain came up in his forehead and Henry flinched away, finding himself for a moment unable to concentrate. He tossed aside his helmet and rubbed his temples to try to clear the fog in front of his eyes. What had been wrong with him today? The morning felt full of promise, but then something occured, something he could not remember. There was a blank spot in his mind where the morning's memories had been. He couldn't recall waking up, nor could he remember preparing a speech appropriate to the desparate situation. He knew the danger everyone faced. The nobles might find survival by being ransomed, but the commoners would have to fight or die. Words could inspire, but when he stood in front of the few that constituted his army earlier that day, he found he had none to say. And yet he had that very morning spent time in prayer and contemplation to prepare. The vaguest memory of a strange visitor flickered at the edge of his consciousness, but then it slipped away and dissolved into nothing. Henry rubbed his forehead again, and then a realization struck him, followed by the sickening certainty that he was only now remembering something important. With a feeling like he was deep beneath water and reaching to the surface, Henry slowly emerged from his sudden fugue.
It was Saint Crispin's Day.
Looking up, Henry saw the Duke of Gloucester speaking to him. The young man looked alarmed.
"My lord king? Sire!" Gloucester cried. "Henry!" He spoke quickly and with force, as if he'd been trying to get the king's attention for some time.
"I am here, Humphrey. We have to get out of here. Now."
"Aye," gasped the duke.
"Something is amiss. The woods are the only way. Don't ask how I know this."
Gloucester nodded quickly and whirled around to call for a retreat, but a French cavalry charge hit the lines at that moment. The area around the king descended into chaos.
* * *
John threw himself to the ground as the arrows fell all around him. Many of them were were caught by the trees of Tramecourt; the sound overhead echoed like a perverse parody of hail on a thatched roof. Many more traversed the canopy with deadly precision, and the shrieks and screams of injured and dying men began to snuff out what remained of John's frayed sanity. Nearby, Thomas had also taken cover behind a thick tree, and John could see him cupping his massive hands over his ears. He crawled quickly to the tree and huddled next to his friend. The two sat there, curled up as small as possible while the arrows came down all around them. John counted a dozen arrows to each beat of his hotly-pounding heart, each pained throb sending new waves of burning panic into his aching body. Slowly, like a storm subsiding, the attack slowed. John opened his eyes and saw Walter standing in the open. A feeling like a chill creeping around his neck and throat overcame him in waves.
"I got to get him," he said, his voice shaking in fear. Glancing over at Thomas, he said it again. "I got to get him!"
That notion appeared to alarm Thomas and he shook his head fiercely. Trying in vain to make himself heard over the terror left behind by the initial attack, Thomas started shouting. "Cook!" he bellowed. "Walter Cook!" His voice was a ferocious roar, and he shouted himself hoarse for several mortally-long moments before the arrows started to fall again.
Walter looked dazed. John had seen that happen before, but never to a friend. Urgency drove him into action and he scrambled to his feet. Dodging the arrows that were coming down around him, he rushed to his friend and grabbed him.
The young man blinked at him. His face was white as chalk and John could feel him shaking, but he didn't seem hurt. "John?"
"Walter, get down 'afore you get killed!"
Walter nodded, and then an arrow sliced into John's back. There was a sound like a bundle of twigs snapping as the ribs gave way, and John fell to one knee, his hand pulling free from Walter's tunic. Blood seeped like thick oil from the wound, making the metal head of the arrow seem to disappear. John gritted his teeth, and forced a growl from his throat.
"Get to Thomas!"
Walter stared at his injured friend with wide, unbelieving eyes. His lips were dried and cracked and he shook his head in confusion and denial. Holding up his hands to John, he fled in the other direction, stumbling and falling as he ran. John watched Walter flee until he vanish into the thick of Tramecourt. Pressing a hand tightly over his wound and trying to stand nearly made John faint, but he forced himself to stagger back the way he came. He thought he could still hear Thomas shouting, and even thought he could see the big fellow coming towards him in a run, but then the ribs across his chest erupted in splintered white and splattered red as an arrow caught him, and everything went dark.
* * *
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I should really look to the EU3-subforum more often - I've managed to miss the start of a new phargle-AAR. And a great one at that.
I love it how you manage to convey a sense of battle. Counterpoising simple archers and lords was a very good choice, and you pulled it off to give the scenes of both very different, distinct flavours, which is hard to do - and a compliment to your writing skills. A wonderful narrative.
Do you already have any plans what span of time this AAR is going to cover? Your pace is leisurely, which gives a great sense of the battle, but decades or even centuries at this speed are going to take ages. Or do you plan to at times skip many years and jump to another interesting junction of your story without bothering with the interim?
I love it how you manage to convey a sense of battle. Counterpoising simple archers and lords was a very good choice, and you pulled it off to give the scenes of both very different, distinct flavours, which is hard to do - and a compliment to your writing skills. A wonderful narrative.
Do you already have any plans what span of time this AAR is going to cover? Your pace is leisurely, which gives a great sense of the battle, but decades or even centuries at this speed are going to take ages. Or do you plan to at times skip many years and jump to another interesting junction of your story without bothering with the interim?
I think you're very good at battle scenes. Both carry the sense of the battlefield to the reader very well, especially the second one.
As the_Guiscard asked, I doubt this one will cover a whole game, it would take decades to finish this if so, even when skipping like ten or twenty years between wars/generations/plotlines.
As the_Guiscard asked, I doubt this one will cover a whole game, it would take decades to finish this if so, even when skipping like ten or twenty years between wars/generations/plotlines.
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No, I think it is good that we get updates covering small periods.
We have enough of the other kind of narrative.
And war is very important in every aar.
Touching updates. Wars are more brutal in the frontline when a charge of knights tries to run over you.o
Excellent!
We have enough of the other kind of narrative.
And war is very important in every aar.
Touching updates. Wars are more brutal in the frontline when a charge of knights tries to run over you.
o Excellent!
Uh oh... Doesn't look like things are going too well for the English. ...I wonder what was up with King Henry and Walter the peasant?
Aliens!! They wish to alter the Battle of Agincourt. I always knew they would help the French...
Aliens!! They wish to alter the Battle of Agincourt.
I always knew they would help the French...
And there we have some neat mysticism added to the battle. It is not over yet.
War is little about glory, and much about the desperation and grit to keep yourself alive. I like the way you portray it -- there are no fairytale deaths of Roland at Agincourt, which is as pitiful as it is realistic.
War is little about glory, and much about the desperation and grit to keep yourself alive. I like the way you portray it -- there are no fairytale deaths of Roland at Agincourt, which is as pitiful as it is realistic.
The_Guiscard, I am delighted to have your insight. Thank you for the compliments. The timeframe here is much tighter than anything I've done before, but my focus will be on the characters that are being introduced rather than the entirety of the game itself - specifically, the immediate happenings that take place after the battle. I hope that works.
Qorten, merci. I dig on good battle scenes, because first of all they're hard to do well so I take it as a challenge, and second because I do a bit of silly combat games myself. That gives me the lightest sense of what it's like to have a line fall around you, or to see a situation dissolve into panic, etc. It's my hope that I've ratcheted up that experience and combined it with enough stolen imagery from The_Guiscard that it comes across as intense and authentic. ;-)
Enewald, aye, there are plenty of AARs that span years, decades and centuries. This one will focus on moments. Thank you for your analysis of the updates!
EnragedKiwi, aliens, hah - although that's an intriguing perception, and one that I've seen (pertinent to the storyline) made elsewhere. There's something at work here, yes. It will be revealed in steps and stages.
CatKnight, five or ten thousand archers and crossbowmen bombarding a position is bound to be brutal at least!
Snugglie, yeah, I am going for mysticism. And yes, the battle is not over yet, but the next update will be decisive. Thank you for your comment. Your observation about the grit of dying in battle has informed the tone of my update for tomorrow.
Urcules, it was my fear that picking well-known scenes might be distracting. But the image worked so well that I couldn't not use it!
Thanks, y'all! I'll appreciate the views and comments thus far. This has been fun to write, and I am excited to post tomorrow's update - like a kid wanting to sneak upstairs to see the gifts he's supposed to unwrap in the morning!
Qorten, merci. I dig on good battle scenes, because first of all they're hard to do well so I take it as a challenge, and second because I do a bit of silly combat games myself. That gives me the lightest sense of what it's like to have a line fall around you, or to see a situation dissolve into panic, etc. It's my hope that I've ratcheted up that experience and combined it with enough stolen imagery from The_Guiscard that it comes across as intense and authentic. ;-)
Enewald, aye, there are plenty of AARs that span years, decades and centuries. This one will focus on moments. Thank you for your analysis of the updates!
EnragedKiwi, aliens, hah - although that's an intriguing perception, and one that I've seen (pertinent to the storyline) made elsewhere. There's something at work here, yes. It will be revealed in steps and stages.
CatKnight, five or ten thousand archers and crossbowmen bombarding a position is bound to be brutal at least!
Snugglie, yeah, I am going for mysticism. And yes, the battle is not over yet, but the next update will be decisive. Thank you for your comment. Your observation about the grit of dying in battle has informed the tone of my update for tomorrow.
Urcules, it was my fear that picking well-known scenes might be distracting.
But the image worked so well that I couldn't not use it!Thanks, y'all! I'll appreciate the views and comments thus far. This has been fun to write, and I am excited to post tomorrow's update - like a kid wanting to sneak upstairs to see the gifts he's supposed to unwrap in the morning!
phargle said:Urcules, it was my fear that picking well-known scenes might be distracting.
Yes and no.
When I first realized you were setting up Agincourt, I thought: "Well, I know who wins. Let's see how well he tells it."
Then you broke from history and made it work very well. The scene flowed well and it departed from OTL in realistic ways. While it may have distracted if you'd gone the historical route, the fact you've parted company makes me very curious about the future.
Just letting you know that Thrones has now officially replaced Chronicles of the Golden Cross as my N° 1 favorite AAR across the whole forum. Congrats!
CatKnight, I appreciate that. It's nice to know when something is working. Thank you1
Qorten, you're too kind. I'd settle for being your N° 1 favorite phargle AAr across the whole forum. Thank you, and I am glad you like this.
demokratickid, done!
Next update, coming right up!
Qorten, you're too kind. I'd settle for being your N° 1 favorite phargle AAr across the whole forum. Thank you, and I am glad you like this.
demokratickid, done!
Next update, coming right up!
Peers.
Peers
"To the king! To the king!" shouted Gloucester, his throat clogged with panic. Standing there between Henry and the French charge, he was alone; a solitary man-at-arms against the three dozen mounted knights who had punched through the line. A blast of mud was kicked up as a fast-approaching steed reared, and the French nobleman astride the horse looked down at the duke from behind a slitted helm. For a moment, the rest of the battlefield seemed to be gone except for Gloucester and the man on the warhorse. Gloucester was certain he appeared utterly unthreatening with only a sword to defend himself.
A serenity that was nearly terrifying in its totality took ahold of him as he looked around for help. This is the end, he thought calmly. I shall die at Agincourt. I hope there is no pain. . . then the English men-at-arms closed ranks around him and his reverie subsided. The swampy mud churned beneath the stamping of hooves and iron boots, reducing the initial advantage of the French charge, and Gloucester threw his sword up over his head to block the horseman's swing as the reared warhorse came crashing back down to earth. The clang of metal jarred him right down to his knees, but that was all. The moment passed. He was alive.
Gloucester eyed the rider and recognized him as John, the Duke of Alençon. He grabbed the horse's reins and pulled hard. The force of the tug yanked his own body close against the horse's left flank and took Alençon sharply out of one of his stirrups. When the French duke swung a sword to hit Gloucester, his own shield got in the way and he slipped, tumbling down into the deep muck. Gloucester fell with him and landed on his back with a thud that left him stunned. When he recovered his senses, he saw that he was facing his own line; he could see the outnumbered Henry fighting against three dismounted knights.
He tried to call out, but Alençon was already on his feet and upon him. The Frenchman rammed the tip of a broadsword deep into Gloucester's side with both hands, penetrating just below the breastplate. Gloucester felt warm and ill, like his tongue was swelling up his mouth, and his eyes rolled back into his skull as his right side thrashed once in the mud. Alençon tried and failed to wrench his sword free, and gave up when three men-at-arms approached.
"I yield," he said mildly barely a breath before the men-at-arms cut him down.
"My lord Gloucester!" one of them cried out, his thick Welsh accent colored with concern and desperation. "You must stand, sir!"
Gloucester blinked feebly and felt around for his sword. There was a shout from further back in the line, and the blurry image of the Welsh man-at-arms standing over him seemed to turn and fade away. The chaos of metal banging against metal sprang up suddenly, and was cut short by the finality of metal cutting against bone. The king's name being shouted penetrated the foggy headache smothering Gloucester's mind, and, certain that his Welsh rescuer was not returning, he tried to stand. Rocking uneasily on weakened legs, he lurched to a horse and leaned against it for support. To his dark amusement, he realized it was the horse that recently bore Alençon. Pushing back against the disorienting sensation that pain was hovering just past the tip of his mind's tongue, he gripped the reins again and forced himself to walk.
"Henry," he gasped.
Henry was in the thick of it, surrounded by a throng of fighting men, but he heard Gloucester's call. He looked in horror at the injured duke. "My God," he whispered. "My God, Humphrey!"
"You must go," Gloucester murmured.
"We must all go!" the king yelled back. Calling to the men-at-arms who had come to his rescue, he cried, "If any of you be knights worthy of the name, you will bring Gloucester to me!"
"A curse on on every man-devil of you that comes my way!" Gloucester snapped, his hard and awful voice freezing the men-at-arms cold. He sent the horse in the direction of the king's party and took a step back towards the French line. "My king," he rasped urgently, his voice a fluid-choked rattle.
Henry screamed. "Humphrey!"
The Duke of Gloucester could not see, could not stand upright, and could barely walk. His right arm was hooked against the wet hollow of his belly. The grip of his sword felt slippery and slick in his bloodied left hand. A fuzzy ripple of orange and gold passed across his eyes; the sun was setting. Humphrey shuddered in pain and grimaced. Turning to face the French line he heard coming up behind him, the Duke of Gloucester roared.
"God for Harry, England, and St. George!"
Like dogs taking a wounded hart, the enemy closed in around him.
The warhorse crashed through the woods as night fell on Agincourt. King Henry gripped the reins of the unfamiliar steed tightly. On the same horse, his body shielding his king, rode one of the young men-at-arms who had tried to save Gloucester. Both men rode with heavy hearts. For all they knew, they alone had escaped among those who fought for England. The repetitive clapping of hooves against the forest floor pounded their despair into their minds. As the approaching dark surrounded them, the sound of the gallop became the entirety of their existences. The air took on shades of blue, navy, and then black. Only then did Henry pull on the reins to slow the charger. For a moment, silence hung in place around the horse, pierced only now and then by snorts of hot air from its nostrils and light clouds of breath from the king and his knight. Midnight passed, and images of those who died upon Saint Crispin's Day swirled up before Henry's eyes. He closed his eyes to banished the visions, but the ghost of Gloucester remained. Henry flinched from the questions he was sure he saw asked in that face. I have no answers for you, he despaired. Shaking his head, Henry tried to clear his mind of grief. Grief must wait until I am in England, he thought. If I can get to England. . .
"Calais," the king said suddenly. He looked over his shoulder at the knight. "Calais," he said again.
"They will be looking for you on the road to Calais, sire," was the knight's sullen response.
"Gascony? Far, I know, but perhaps. . ."
"God bless your father, but not to Gascony," the knight muttered bitterly. "Nor Paris, nor Calais. What hope do the two of us have against all of France?"
Henry hesitated at the young man's harsh tone, and then he realized he recognized him. "What is your name?" he asked quietly.
"Roger Vaughan, sire."
Henry gave the youth a sympathetic look. Gently, he spoke. "I knew Dafydd Gam, your father-in-law. He fought bravely today."
Roger's face took on a hard fierceness and his eyes glistened. "Gloucester is dead."
Henry felt his jaw start to set, but he breathed deeply and forced himself to be kind. "John of Alençon is as well, and I am alive, and both by your father-in-law's actions. It will be long before the world forgets his name."
Roger looked away angrily. A few moments of silence passed between the two men. Henry was about to speak when he noticed the young man's face had softened; the unwelcoming lines of hatred had been replaced by curiosity and apprehension. The knight had seen something. Turning his charger about, Henry squinted into the darkness. A smile crept across his face. "My God, that's a mastiff if I've ever seen one," the king declared. Urging the horse forward, he approached. The mastiff was powerfully-built, weighing perhaps a hundred and fifty pounds, and it stood growling near an ancient tree. The shadows of the dark gave the mournful-looking beast a fearful menace, and it bore its teeth as the warhorse brought Roger and the king near. A body lay on the ground next to the dog with an English coat of arms barely visible beneath splattered red stains. Henry began to carefully dismount.
"Sire," Roger protested.
"It's all right, Roger," Henry assured him. To the dog, he spoke soothing words, the wet leaves muffling his heavy footfalls as he walked closer. Reaching out cautiously, he rested a hand on the dog's massive head. "It's all right," he repeated. He turned to Roger. "She knows me." The king ignored Roger's incredulous response and knelt next to the dog, moving his hand from the mastiff to the lions emblazoned on the tunic worn by the body. To Henry's momentary surprise, the faint movement of breathing could be felt. The king surveyed the injured man-at-arms and rejoiced to see that the fallen man's injures were minor. Putting two fingers to the man's chin, he gently lifted up. A grim smile of recognition slowly came to his face.
"By the grace of God," breathed the king. "It's Peers Legh."
The man stirred. His face quickly became a mask of stunned disbelief. "King Henry?"
"By the grace of God," Henry affirmed with a relieved grin. He turned to Roger and held up three fingers. "Where can we make it to now?"
The destroyer noticed the king's party and turned from his pursuit to observe them. Cursing the dog, he moved on.
Peers
"I can smell the rain from
Those graying storms so thick with angels
He was my brother
And with him go
My better angels."
( click for music )Those graying storms so thick with angels
He was my brother
And with him go
My better angels."
"To the king! To the king!" shouted Gloucester, his throat clogged with panic. Standing there between Henry and the French charge, he was alone; a solitary man-at-arms against the three dozen mounted knights who had punched through the line. A blast of mud was kicked up as a fast-approaching steed reared, and the French nobleman astride the horse looked down at the duke from behind a slitted helm. For a moment, the rest of the battlefield seemed to be gone except for Gloucester and the man on the warhorse. Gloucester was certain he appeared utterly unthreatening with only a sword to defend himself.
A serenity that was nearly terrifying in its totality took ahold of him as he looked around for help. This is the end, he thought calmly. I shall die at Agincourt. I hope there is no pain. . . then the English men-at-arms closed ranks around him and his reverie subsided. The swampy mud churned beneath the stamping of hooves and iron boots, reducing the initial advantage of the French charge, and Gloucester threw his sword up over his head to block the horseman's swing as the reared warhorse came crashing back down to earth. The clang of metal jarred him right down to his knees, but that was all. The moment passed. He was alive.
Gloucester eyed the rider and recognized him as John, the Duke of Alençon. He grabbed the horse's reins and pulled hard. The force of the tug yanked his own body close against the horse's left flank and took Alençon sharply out of one of his stirrups. When the French duke swung a sword to hit Gloucester, his own shield got in the way and he slipped, tumbling down into the deep muck. Gloucester fell with him and landed on his back with a thud that left him stunned. When he recovered his senses, he saw that he was facing his own line; he could see the outnumbered Henry fighting against three dismounted knights.
He tried to call out, but Alençon was already on his feet and upon him. The Frenchman rammed the tip of a broadsword deep into Gloucester's side with both hands, penetrating just below the breastplate. Gloucester felt warm and ill, like his tongue was swelling up his mouth, and his eyes rolled back into his skull as his right side thrashed once in the mud. Alençon tried and failed to wrench his sword free, and gave up when three men-at-arms approached.
"I yield," he said mildly barely a breath before the men-at-arms cut him down.
"My lord Gloucester!" one of them cried out, his thick Welsh accent colored with concern and desperation. "You must stand, sir!"
Gloucester blinked feebly and felt around for his sword. There was a shout from further back in the line, and the blurry image of the Welsh man-at-arms standing over him seemed to turn and fade away. The chaos of metal banging against metal sprang up suddenly, and was cut short by the finality of metal cutting against bone. The king's name being shouted penetrated the foggy headache smothering Gloucester's mind, and, certain that his Welsh rescuer was not returning, he tried to stand. Rocking uneasily on weakened legs, he lurched to a horse and leaned against it for support. To his dark amusement, he realized it was the horse that recently bore Alençon. Pushing back against the disorienting sensation that pain was hovering just past the tip of his mind's tongue, he gripped the reins again and forced himself to walk.
"Henry," he gasped.
Henry was in the thick of it, surrounded by a throng of fighting men, but he heard Gloucester's call. He looked in horror at the injured duke. "My God," he whispered. "My God, Humphrey!"
"You must go," Gloucester murmured.
"We must all go!" the king yelled back. Calling to the men-at-arms who had come to his rescue, he cried, "If any of you be knights worthy of the name, you will bring Gloucester to me!"
"A curse on on every man-devil of you that comes my way!" Gloucester snapped, his hard and awful voice freezing the men-at-arms cold. He sent the horse in the direction of the king's party and took a step back towards the French line. "My king," he rasped urgently, his voice a fluid-choked rattle.
Henry screamed. "Humphrey!"
The Duke of Gloucester could not see, could not stand upright, and could barely walk. His right arm was hooked against the wet hollow of his belly. The grip of his sword felt slippery and slick in his bloodied left hand. A fuzzy ripple of orange and gold passed across his eyes; the sun was setting. Humphrey shuddered in pain and grimaced. Turning to face the French line he heard coming up behind him, the Duke of Gloucester roared.
"God for Harry, England, and St. George!"
Like dogs taking a wounded hart, the enemy closed in around him.
* * *
The warhorse crashed through the woods as night fell on Agincourt. King Henry gripped the reins of the unfamiliar steed tightly. On the same horse, his body shielding his king, rode one of the young men-at-arms who had tried to save Gloucester. Both men rode with heavy hearts. For all they knew, they alone had escaped among those who fought for England. The repetitive clapping of hooves against the forest floor pounded their despair into their minds. As the approaching dark surrounded them, the sound of the gallop became the entirety of their existences. The air took on shades of blue, navy, and then black. Only then did Henry pull on the reins to slow the charger. For a moment, silence hung in place around the horse, pierced only now and then by snorts of hot air from its nostrils and light clouds of breath from the king and his knight. Midnight passed, and images of those who died upon Saint Crispin's Day swirled up before Henry's eyes. He closed his eyes to banished the visions, but the ghost of Gloucester remained. Henry flinched from the questions he was sure he saw asked in that face. I have no answers for you, he despaired. Shaking his head, Henry tried to clear his mind of grief. Grief must wait until I am in England, he thought. If I can get to England. . .
"Calais," the king said suddenly. He looked over his shoulder at the knight. "Calais," he said again.
"They will be looking for you on the road to Calais, sire," was the knight's sullen response.
"Gascony? Far, I know, but perhaps. . ."
"God bless your father, but not to Gascony," the knight muttered bitterly. "Nor Paris, nor Calais. What hope do the two of us have against all of France?"
Henry hesitated at the young man's harsh tone, and then he realized he recognized him. "What is your name?" he asked quietly.
"Roger Vaughan, sire."
Henry gave the youth a sympathetic look. Gently, he spoke. "I knew Dafydd Gam, your father-in-law. He fought bravely today."
Roger's face took on a hard fierceness and his eyes glistened. "Gloucester is dead."
Henry felt his jaw start to set, but he breathed deeply and forced himself to be kind. "John of Alençon is as well, and I am alive, and both by your father-in-law's actions. It will be long before the world forgets his name."
Roger looked away angrily. A few moments of silence passed between the two men. Henry was about to speak when he noticed the young man's face had softened; the unwelcoming lines of hatred had been replaced by curiosity and apprehension. The knight had seen something. Turning his charger about, Henry squinted into the darkness. A smile crept across his face. "My God, that's a mastiff if I've ever seen one," the king declared. Urging the horse forward, he approached. The mastiff was powerfully-built, weighing perhaps a hundred and fifty pounds, and it stood growling near an ancient tree. The shadows of the dark gave the mournful-looking beast a fearful menace, and it bore its teeth as the warhorse brought Roger and the king near. A body lay on the ground next to the dog with an English coat of arms barely visible beneath splattered red stains. Henry began to carefully dismount.
"Sire," Roger protested.
"It's all right, Roger," Henry assured him. To the dog, he spoke soothing words, the wet leaves muffling his heavy footfalls as he walked closer. Reaching out cautiously, he rested a hand on the dog's massive head. "It's all right," he repeated. He turned to Roger. "She knows me." The king ignored Roger's incredulous response and knelt next to the dog, moving his hand from the mastiff to the lions emblazoned on the tunic worn by the body. To Henry's momentary surprise, the faint movement of breathing could be felt. The king surveyed the injured man-at-arms and rejoiced to see that the fallen man's injures were minor. Putting two fingers to the man's chin, he gently lifted up. A grim smile of recognition slowly came to his face.
"By the grace of God," breathed the king. "It's Peers Legh."
The man stirred. His face quickly became a mask of stunned disbelief. "King Henry?"
"By the grace of God," Henry affirmed with a relieved grin. He turned to Roger and held up three fingers. "Where can we make it to now?"
* * *
The destroyer noticed the king's party and turned from his pursuit to observe them. Cursing the dog, he moved on.
* * *
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